


Reformation

by grabmotte



Series: Iconoclasm [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Getting Back Together, Kidnapping, M/M, Pining, References to what we would today consider war crimes, Shameless abuse of historical references, The siege of La Rochelle, Trust Issues, Whump, Would not recommend hiring them, the most incompetent kidnappers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-05-31 05:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 109,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15112541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/pseuds/grabmotte
Summary: A suspicious shipment of arms puts the musketeers on the trail of a French noble family involved in a plot against the Crown. Forced to work together closely in order to root out this conspiracy, Cardinal Richelieu and Captain Treville need to find a way to move forward after their recent break-up following the Cardinal's attempt on the Queen's life.Aramis' growing concern for the Queen and his son's life threatens to complicate any collaboration between the Cardinal and the musketeers even further. Convinced that Richelieu knows exactly what happened between him and the Queen at the convent, he decides to confront the Cardinal – with unforeseen consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

"He'll never show up in this weather."

"The man's not made of sugar. Unlike you," d'Artagnan shot back. He wasn't going to admit that he had been about to complain about the rain himself. The dark clouds above had turned the evening sky as black as night. "If you melt in the rain you should've swapped duties with Athos."

Their fearless leader had pulled rank and secured himself the equally dull but decidedly drier task of keeping an eye on the common room of the roadside inn they were surveilling.

At least d'Artagnan hoped that Athos was staying dry. He'd made a resolution to stay away from hard drinking after he had parted from Milady, but d'Artagnan could that tell a lot of time was going to pass before it could be said with any certainty that Athos had let her go.

D'Artagnan winced when Porthos slapped his shoulder. "Hasn't been a musketeer for half a year and he's already getting insubordinate," he said with a wink, but Aramis didn't seem to share his friend's good humour. "I'll tell the Captain you two love standing out in the rain the next time he needs a volunteer for observation duty."

Porthos twisted his mouth into a pout. "What did _I_ do?"

"Ignore him," d'Artagnan said, patting the big musketeer on the back. "He's just grumpy that he's finally been taken off palace duty and doesn't have any pretty ladies to ogle."

"Someone has to be at the palace!" Aramis whirled around so fast that the rain collecting in the folds of his hat sprayed d'Artagnan's face. "The Queen is in even greater danger now that she's with child, and the Captain won't hear me out on increasing her guard."

D'Artagnan took a step back, raising his hands. "Of course he doesn't. The Queen already feels stalked with every step." 

Aramis continued huffing. "The Cardinal's not going to stay at Richelieu forever." He gritted his teeth. "He'll be back."

"You think he's going to try again? So soon? He practically fled Paris not a week after Her Majesty announced she was with child. He knows he's beaten."

Porthos agreed. "Yeah, he went to his family estate for his _health_. That's in the Poitou right?" 

D'Artagnan nodded vaguely. He had never been anyway near the place and had no particular urge to ever pay the Cardinal a visit.

"Don't you remember the uprising of '27?" Porthos continued and d'Artagnan thought he saw Aramis shudder.

His friends had become so close and dear to him this past year that it was easy to forget that they had such an eventful history with each other. They had fought in actual battles, so unlike the skirmishes and street fights d'Artagnan had been involved in. Even though he had won his commission months ago, moments like this made d'Artagnan feel no wiser than the green youth who had first stumbled into the garrison a year ago. 

If he had been old enough to join a couple of years earlier, he would have been with them at the famous Siege of La Rochelle, but instead he had still been training with wooden swords and shooting at nothing more dangerous than clay-pigeons.

Aramis' incessant complaints made it very easy to forget he was in the presence of famous warriors.

"Place's a swamp," Porthos explained. "Thought the insects would eat me long before the Huguenots got to me. And in this weather—" he indicated the rain running from his hat as he rambled on – "any luck, I bet you the swamp's gonna do him in."

D'Artagnan furrowed his brow. "If it does, I hope it happens while we're away from Paris. The King is already growing more nervous about the Queen's pregnancy every day. Can you imagine what a mood he would be in if the Cardinal died?"

Despite the prospect of an ignoble end for their long-time adversary, Aramis continued to glower at his companions. "I trust the Cardinal to scheme against Her Majesty from the grave."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "I'd still rather be out here than at the palace and under the scrutiny of the Queen's ladies all day." 

"Bet you Aramis wouldn't mind that much. Some of them are real stunning." Porthos' winked at his friend, but Aramis continued to frown.

"I'm relieved to hear that the safety of our Queen is a laughing matter to you. She's almost been assassinated once this year."

"It's just banter, Aramis."

"Try it on someone else tonight."

D'Artagnan sighed, turning his attention back onto the gates just in time to spot an ox-drawn cart approaching though the rain.

"Eyes on the road, gentlemen. Here comes our man."

The musketeers sank back into the shadows of the nearby building that housed the inn's stables as the cart trundled down the path that led to La Couronne roadside inn, followed by a hooded rider. The driver was a young man of d'Artagnan's age who looked as though he was trying to grow a beard without much luck. Next to him on the box sat an older man who was just stowing away what could only be a harquebus that had been lying across his knees.

As soon as the vehicle came to a halt a third man hopped down from the back of the cart to help tie up the rider's horse. He was followed by another young man, who promptly complained about the rain. 

"Should have brought a hat," d'Artagnan whispered, pointing towards his own headgear and making Porthos grin.

"You need to get your own. Athos is gonna want that back."

Before d'Artagnan could reply, Aramis made them fall silent with a hiss, and the young musketeer imagined he had seen his friend smirk. It appeared the promise of imminent action was succeeding in lightening his mood where the musketeers' quips had failed. 

They watched in silence as the two older men and the rider walked towards the inn's main building. Despite the gloom the set of pistols hanging from their belts was easy to make out for the trained eye.

Having abandoned their blue cloaks and pauldrons earlier that evening for garb more in keeping with the image of simple ostlers, it fell to the musketeers to offer a helping hand to the two younger men who remained in the yard to unharness the animals. The inn's regular ostlers had conveniently agreed to take the evening off and lend the musketeers their coats.

"You gentlemen look like you could use a hand."

The young men hesitated, throwing each other uncertain looks, even though the hatless fellow in particular would quickly end up soaked through if the two of them did all of the work alone.

"The sooner we take care of your animals, the sooner we can all be where it's dry," d'Artagnan offered. Fortunately, the men did not argue.

"Alright. Just get them out of harness."

"And after that?" D'Artagnan used his most companionable tone as he set to freeing the oxen from their yoke. "Do you need help unloading?" 

"No."

"No?"

The man with the hat glowered. "No." 

D'Artagnan grimaced. "Don't like to talk much, huh?" He nodded at Aramis who was pulling at the halter of one of the dull-eyed creatures as he tried to coax it towards the open stable doors. "He doesn't either."

Aramis, too, glowered.

"The wares stay on the cart," the man repeated, but his face fell when he realised that Porthos had already positioned himself at the back of the vehicle to unload one of the crates. 

"Get away from there!"

Porthos dropped his hands, but he stayed where he was, petting the horse tied to the back of the waggon that was sniffing his coat with interest. The ostler that garment belonged to had probably forgotten to take what treats he kept in there out of its pockets before lending it to the musketeer. 

"Someone might take your boxes while you're in the inn."

"They won't get far without the oxen. Our cargo's heavy," the hatless man said. "We're delivering smithing tools to Troyes."

"And we're not leaving the cart," the driver added, making d'Artagnan grimace.

"In this weather? Your oxen are going to sleep better than you."

"Always wanted to be a blacksmith," Porthos chimed in happily, pretending to be as oblivious to the young men's churlishness as to the horse munching on whatever it had found in his pockets. 

"The wares stay on the cart!"

The driver's hand flew to his side before Porthos even made a move to touch the crates. He dropped it again when he felt the muzzle of d'Artagnan's pistol press against the back of his head.

"I wouldn't pull that on my friend if I were you." Without lowering his gun an inch d'Artagnan drew a slim, short-barrelled pistol from the driver's belt and promptly aimed it at the man's ribs.

The hatless one made a dash for the gate at that moment, but Aramis had appeared from the stable behind him. All it took was a well place foot to make the man trip and end his flight. In the blink of an eye the unfortunate man found himself on the ground with Aramis astride him.

The driver whimpered as he watched Aramis' tie his companion's arms on his back with his belt.

"You're bandits!" 

D'Artagnan could hear Porthos coming up behind him and smiled genially. "Only as much as you are purveyors of tools."

Within moments d'Artagnan and Porthos had deposited the two young men in the stables, tied up and gagged. When they returned to the yard, Aramis was busy at work in the back of the cart, prying open one of the crates with a blade.

"We could have used some of your charm earlier," d'Artagnan grumbled as he stepped out into the rain again. "Even if they don't figure out who we are, they are going to assume _something_ is up after this show."

Aramis kept working silently until the lid of the crate he was working sprang on open. He had to take a moment to collect himself.

"Forgive me if I refuse to waste my charm on these men," he said, shifting to the side so that the others could take a look inside the crate.

Porthos whistled. "Only blacksmith I've ever seen wielding something like this didn't use it for forging."

"I doubt you've ever seen a blacksmith wield this model, my friend. They don't make them like this in France." Aramis grimaced as he lifted a harquebus out of the crate. "Spain on the other hand…"

He didn't need to spell it out. They all understood the implications of what they had found.

There was going to be an uprising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the short intro-chapter. All following chapters are going to be a bit longer – this is going to be another long story. 
> 
> My alternative summary for this fic is: _Exes who want to get back together but have to work through some (a lot of) stuff first before that can be considered good for anyone,_ so that is something you have to look forward to.
> 
> I'm writing this story as a sequel to _Iconoclasm_ (in which Richelieu and Treville ended their long-term relationship over what happened at the end of the show's first series), but don't worry if you don't feel like reading that one, I made sure the plot of _Reformation_ can stand on its own two legs.
> 
> Many thanks to lustig for betaing this monster!


	2. Chapter 2

"There is a messenger from the Louvre at the gates, Your Eminence."

"See what he wants."

Richelieu shoved the papers in front of him aside with disgust as soon as Captain Cahusac had left. Standing up from his desk, he crossed the room to open the windows. It was too stuffy in the office, and if he had to read one more request by the local clergy to mediate in a trivial theological dispute or another petition to bless a prized cow he would suffocate.

He stood at the windows, breathing in deeply, and looked out on the gardens of the old Richelieu family manor. Outside, the mosquitos danced in the late afternoon sun, and although he couldn't hear the whining, buzzing noise of their wings, he could imagine it. He heard it every night as he laid down his head. 

Every night it was the same. Every night, ceaselessly, their whine became the chorus to the thoughts in his head. Every night they came to him, when it was too hot to put up barriers against their thirsty mouths. Biting, buzzing, they kept him from sleep.

During the first week of his stay here, he had still gotten out of bed and chased after them with his night candle, on bare feet and bare legs. All he had achieved was presenting the beasts with a bigger buffet. He dug his fingernails into his palms to suppress the urge to scratch the bite marks at his neck. He hadn't caught a single one of them. They were like the immortal devils tasked with eternally preventing the sinner from finding rest in Hades.

Between the mosquitos outside his window and the bloodsuckers wearing the garb of the local clergy each demanding their pound of flesh, Richelieu was convinced that soon there wasn't going to be anything left of him for the King's messengers – the Queen's hounds.

Turning away from the view, Richelieu walked out of the office and into the hall, choosing not to pay attention to where he was going so long as he was moving. Walking helped him focus. It helped him stave off thoughts of the other devil that had started to haunt him during the nights, unburied by his ordeal at the Queen's hands.

It was a familiar nightmare made of charred flesh stretched around a lipless grin, staring out of empty sockets where eyes had once been. Its grim visage cut short Richelieu's rest on those nights that were too dark for any other devils.

He shook his head. It was the heat that made him think of this horror in daylight. Although the calendar would have them believe that it was fall, summer had decided to make a last advance in time for Richelieu's return to his family home, tormenting him with a plague of mosquitos and unnatural heat. 

It seemed as if even creation was laughing at him for his failure.

He sped up his steps. He hadn't come to Richelieu to drown in melancholy. There was work to do. He had barely started planning his new chateau.

Work would have to begin soon, even if it meant the construction work on the Palais Cardinal would have to be delayed. His family seat deserved better than these crumbling walls.

The gardens would have to go, he decided. He'd drain the land and raise a better, greater garden for his new castle, filled with marble fountains, fragrant fruit trees and beds of bright flowers from Asia. 

Richelieu walked on until he reached a dead end. A single look told him that he found himself in the small salon that had once been his mother's dressing room. It was almost devoid of furniture now, except for a drawer cabinet, a set of chaise longues, and the old portraits on the walls.

They'd have to take out the far wall if Richelieu wanted to expand the manor as the main building of his chateau. 

His eyes were drawn to the painting of his parents in the centre of the wall. François du Plessis was standing next to his seated wife, a hand upon the back of her chair. 

Richelieu's mother looked so unlike the thin, grey woman he remembered. And his father – Richelieu could have sworn that his father was looking just as he had when Richelieu had seen him last. Richelieu had been four years old then. It was disorienting to look at that face with the eyes of an adult and consider how much older he was now than his father had been at the time of his death.

Richelieu didn't remember the painting looking so dull, as though there was a veil of dusty gauze hanging over it. He would have to pay someone to restore the colours or at least buy a more fitting frame. The dull colours made for a harsh contrast with the comparably bright varnish of the frame. 

His mother had been forced to sell the original frame when Richelieu had been a boy along with many other treasures in order to be able to pay the last of her dwindling staff. The years of civil war that had plagued the region in Richelieu's youth had been hard on their family, even when his father had still been alive. 

François du Plessis' close relationship to his patron, the future Henri IV, hadn't paid off for his family in the way he had hoped. Fighting for the crown was expensive and Henri simply hadn't been able to afford supporting the family of every favourite who had died in his service. 

It had been this lack of funds had driven him to eventually marry the Medici, putting a banker's daughter on the throne of France. How times had changed.

She was gone now, of course, exiled twice, and Henri was dead, as dead as François and his wife.

"I am still here," Richelieu said to no one in particular. Despite the efforts of countless conspirators and the incompetence of his own agents, he was alive. The youngest son of the du Plessis of Richelieu knew how to get by.

And yet, as Richelieu studied his mother's features in the painting, he became aware of how narrow the frame was, of how small the room was. It wasn't the first time he had felt like this since returning to his family home: Inadequate, vulnerable. 

In his mind, he heard a familiar voice. _'No palace walls, no matter how magnificent, will save you.'_

This wall had to go. This room had to go.

Richelieu stepped away from the painting. He imagined he could hear the echo of his mother's hushed crying here in her old rooms. As a boy, during the wars, he had often overheard her prayers for the armies to march past their home. Countless time he had gone to bed with the mind-set of a child who had been too sickly to do anything for his mother but add to her worries.

This entire place needed to go.

All of the walls would have to come down. He was going to build stronger ones.

_'Walls won't protect you'_ , the familiar voice said.

Richelieu rushed out of the room. His heart was beating loudly as he moved back into the hall, back to his office, where he had left the windows open, where he could breathe.

A few mosquitos had already found their way inside.

"I am not rebuilding this place because I intend to hide," he said to no one but himself. 

He didn't want a palace, because he wanted to see the Queen's hounds chip their teeth on its walls. It didn't matter if they got in or not. They didn't need to _catch_ him to kill him.

He swallowed. 

_No._

All the Queen needed to do was to declare him a traitor to render him powerless. 

"Your Eminence?"

Richelieu had to exert all of his self-control not to flinch as Cahusac came up behind him. He must have forgotten to close the door, as his Captain was too well trained to walk in on him like that otherwise.

"What is it?" He didn't bother turning or hiding the annoyance in his voice. He kept his gaze focused on the mosquitos dancing above the cup on his desk. So great was their greed for his blood and anything resembling it that, if left undisturbed, he would find them drowned in his wine in a couple of hours. 

"I made the messenger from the Louvre wait in the audience chamber. He insisted he must only deliver his message directly into your hands."

The messenger. Richelieu stilled. He had not forgotten about the messenger. He had merely tried to. But how could he, when he had that familiar, skinless nightmare to remind of the threat he had been living under for the past few months?

There were only two reasons why King Louis would send him such a messenger:

One, to order him to return to Paris.

Two, to render a sentence.

Barely a week had passed since the King had last asked when he should expect Richelieu's return, which meant that it was unlikely that Richelieu's letter in which he apologised for being unable to return just yet had reached the King before this messenger had left Paris.

"This message is from His Majesty?"

_'Walls won't protect you'_ , said the corpse of Concini. ' _Not against the assassins already inside_.

"So he says. He refuses to part with it unless he can deliver it into your hands."

"This messenger… who is he?" In the past, royal executioners had worn many faces. Henri III had been murdered by a monk delivering a message into his hands. Richelieu's own predecessor, Concini, had been shot at point blank range by young King Louis' trusted Captain of the Guard.

_'Walls don't protect you against the killer you invite in.'_

There hadn't been much left of the late First Minister's corpse when the mob had been done with him. A burning, bleeding husk. Skinned flesh and charred bones… the mob had taken pieces of Concini home with them to always remember what justice looked like when it was wielded against the betrayers of their beloved monarch.

"The Comte de l'Aubespine's son."

Richelieu expelled the breath he'd been holding. 

Not Treville then. Not Treville. At least that small mercy had been granted to him. 

"Not a new favourite I hope?" Richelieu asked. He crossed his arms in front of him, before he turned around, hoping to hide the way his hands trembled.

"Your agents would have reported it," the Captain said with a shrug. He was far more cold-blooded than any other Gascon Richelieu had ever met. 

"Let us go to him," Richelieu said. Somehow, his words could be heard over the beating of his heart.

Pushing past Cahusac, he led the way to the audience chamber. _Just a message_ , he told himself as the guards opened the doors for him. _From the King._ His patron. His protector.

Walls would not protect him if His Majesty ever found out what his First Minister had done to the Queen. There'd be no shortage of noblemen offering their services as executioners of their sovereign's will.

Here now was one of those potential hopeful murderers, standing a few feet in front of Richelieu. Aubespine's son was youngish, a bit plump; dressed in a doublet and cloak of the warm colours that had already been so fashionable at court when Richelieu had left Paris a few weeks ago.

This couldn't be his executioner. Not him. Not this soft boy who nearly tripped over his feet as he started bowing to the great cardinal. This couldn't be the end history had planned for him. 

Only when Cahusac turned towards him did Richelieu realise that he had been introduced. He had missed even hearing the name of his assassin.

Young Aubespine took a step forward, reaching into his clothes.

"That is close enough." Cahusac's coolness shattered. He was staring down the young nobleman like a lion about to pounce.

The messenger froze.

_Gascons._

"Now that you can convince yourself with your own eyes that no one but His Eminence is going to look at your letter, may I take it to him?"

Young Aubespine pulled the message out of his bag, but since he still hesitated to part with it Cahusac walked over and took it from him. 

Richelieu's eyes did not leave that paper.

Here was truth. Here was the relief of the executioner's sword – or just another, uncertain reprieve.

He ripped the seal open before his courage could fail him and started scanning the letter for the important words. There was no mention of treason, no mention of the Queen, no order of banishment. He went through the text again, this time taking his time to _read_ , now that he knew his hands wouldn't fail him and drop the paper halfway through reading those sweet words.

Dismissing Aubespine with barely a word, Richelieu headed back for the door, not even waiting for Cahusac to follow. He was free of the oppressive weight of the manor walls for the first time since they had come here – for the first time in months.

"What is it, Your Eminence?" Aubespine squeaked. "What do I tell his Majesty when I return?"

Richelieu stopped. His chateau would need a more impressive audience hall than this. It was good that he had already started to make plans. They would be able to begin the work soon. He was going to ask the King for official permission to build his castle, a testament to his unbroken power over the throne, and the King would grant it. The Queen's hounds would cower behind her skirts.

"Nothing," Richelieu neatly folded up the summons he had received before letting the paper disappear into his robes. "You will tell him nothing."

_'I order you, Cardinal...'_

_'I beseech you, Eminence...'_

_'I beg you, Armand…'_

King Louis' devolving scrawl had restored his soul. Richelieu was returning to green pastures and still waters. The King still needed him. His Majesty's precious musketeers, his Queen, his court, could not deliver what only Richelieu could give.

He tried out a brief smile, carefully, deliberately – as though he had forgotten what they felt like. 

"You will return with us," he told young Aubespine, "and I will be able to tell His Majesty myself."

The exile was returning to Paris. There, the King was going to sign the death warrant for the home of his childhood terrors. The old, familiar voice whispering to him about destruction was gagged. The Queen had kept her mouth shut. She had proved herself to be as powerless and toothless as her hounds. And _Treville_ …

Richelieu stopped. 

Returning to Paris meant returning to Treville.

  


* * *

  


At the court of Louis XIII diplomats came in all shapes and forms. 

At best, the foreign ambassadors sent to Paris were magistrates or priests. Regrettably, this meant they were rhetoricians, but usually it also meant that they were the kind of people who were more invested in mediating a cultural understanding between nations than in using their position for self-aggrandisement. 

At worst, the ambassadors were adventurers with more charisma than sense. Treville suppressed a shudder at the memory of the Medici's old favourite. At least Ambassador Perales was no Concini. 

What _else_ Perales was, however, Treville could not say. It was too early to tell for sure whether the Spanish ambassador had come to Paris because he believed he was doing his country a service or for self-aggrandisement. But having listened to him make demands all afternoon regarding the accommodation of his retinue, Treville was beginning to suspect the latter.

"My guards will accompany me to the reception," he heard Perales say, even though Treville was certain they had been over this point at least twice already. 

"The only armed guards allowed into the presence of His Majesty are his own," Treville explained. At his side, the King's Master of Ceremonies smiled politely at the ambassador. What a great help he had been so far. Treville wasn't sure whether the man was even still listening to anything their guest was saying.

"I demand—"

Treville mimicked the Master of Ceremonies and tuned out again. If he didn't, he might end up telling the ambassador exactly what he thought of any demands made of the King of France in his own palace.

If Treville allowed the ambassador to bring armed guards to the King's ball, he might as well surrender his sword now and lock himself into the Bastille. 

Innocent of the Captain's thoughts, Perales continued to ramble, prompting Treville to roll his eyes. But when Treville looked up there was no equally sarcastic look to meet his own.

Of course there wasn't.

There hadn't been anyone to meet his gaze for almost two months now, but the realisation that he still expected to find Richelieu mirroring his frustration with a sardonic look sufficed to made Treville feel dizzy.

He forced himself to listen to Perales again, and came to regret it immediately. 

"I demand—"

"Of course you do," Treville mumbled.

"What was that, Captain?"

Treville wanted to roll his eyes again, this time at himself. One should think that he would have picked up some skills in flattery with all the extra time he was spending in the company of the King and his favourites now that the Palais Cardinal was barred to him in the evenings. But if anything, not voicing what he really thought of empty words and phrases had become even harder. He rarely felt as lonely as he did among that crowd of courtiers.

At least his slip of the tongue seemed the have woken up the Master of Ceremonies. The polite mask the man had somehow kept in place as he had pretended to follow their conversation was now transformed into an expression of painful embarrassment. 

"What the Captain means," he began, "is that of course he would like to grant your request, but the protocol prevents him."

They all knew that was not what the Captain had meant. 

This was why Treville wasn't a diplomat. Why it was a damn travesty that the Cardinal wasn't here to cut Perales down to size with a single, well-placed word. But silently fuming about Richelieu's continued absence didn't change a thing. Treville had learned that well during the past two months.

Straightening, he addressed the ambassador again. "Your guards may accompany you to the ballroom but no further than that. They will not enter."

"May I hear this from His Majesty himself?"

"You may not."

The King had not been keen on receiving Perales at all. After the audience granted to the ambassador this morning, His Majesty had made it very clear to Treville that he didn't wish to see any of the Spaniards again until he was required to by the festivities they were about to hold in honour of the ambassador's arrival.

Treville hoped the remaining hours until the reception would give the King enough time to calm down. He didn't think of himself as a diplomat, but even _he_ knew that the King of France losing his temper and accusing the ambassador of smuggling and conspiracy without any proof would not send the right signals to Spain.

"A shame that Queen Anne is absent. She would have been appalled at the suspicion and disrespect her countrymen are being subjected to."

This time, Treville let his countenance slip on purpose as he gave Perales a dark look. The Queen had left a couple of days ago for a pilgrimage to pray for the health of her unborn child – and likely to escape her husband's moodiness. The souring effect Perales had on the King would not have endeared the ambassador to her. 

Richelieu would have been able to soothe His Majesty, but, unfortunately, Treville did not have the Cardinal's salesman's tongue. He had only his reason – to which the King had become deaf.

"The protocol applies to everyone, no matter where they are from."

"So you would rather hold this reception without its guest of honour?"

By now Treville was more than ready to call Perales' game and simply shrugged. "The King loves holding feasts." The prospect of the diversions he had planned for the reception was probably the only thing that kept the King from immediately throwing Perales into the Châtelet.

Perales needed a moment to let that statement sink in. "So be it Captain." He straightened, drawing himself up to his full, rather unimpressive height, and struck his chin out. "I put my life and that of my suite in your hands."

Treville did not react to Perales' theatrics. He accepted his victory with a simple nod, silently wishing he could avoid guests of state as easily as His Majesty could. If Perales turned every conversation into melodramatics during the time he was here, it was only a matter of time before Treville ended up as prone to headaches as Richelieu. He could already feel one brewing behind his temples.

Treville banished the thought. He couldn't afford thinking about Richelieu again. He was the Captain of the Musketeers, talking to the ambassador of Spain. He had a duty to fulfil, even if the Cardinal wouldn't. 

"The Duchesse de Troyes will be there," he said, watching Perales closely.

You couldn't lead a body of men for any amount of time – successfully- without picking up a thing or two about reading body language. But Perales' lack of reaction told Treville nothing.

"Ah, I don't believe I have met her," the Spaniard said, before moving on to something else to complain about.

Eventually, the ambassador left to prepare himself for his reception, followed by the Master of Ceremonies who had continued to be of no help at all.

At least now Treville was finally free to return to the garrison and finish his own preparations. If this afternoon had been a taste of what was to come, he needed to prepare himself for an exhausting evening.

Treville ordered d'Artagnan to ready their horses and could feel what little was left of his patience dissipate when he had to repeat himself to call the young musketeer out of his stupor. D'Artagnan had spent the entire afternoon standing in the corner, staring into thin air as his Captain and the ambassador had argued.

Hopefully the young man had been thinking of something other than Madame Bonacieux for once. Sending him out to Troyes appeared to have done him good. Athos had been full of praise of his conduct during their mission there. But now that the musketeers were back in Paris, d'Artagnan had grown moody, and Treville did not have the time nor the patience to deal with the fallout of this youthful infatuation.

His nerves were wearing thinner with each hour as the festivities in honour of their Spanish guests drew nearer. The ambassador most likely knew of the other matter the musketeers had uncovered in Troyes, which complicated matters.

Treville sighed. He would have to deal with the ambassador again soon enough. But first, he had to instruct his regiment on what was expected of them during the reception. 

Could he have done more, arguing with Perales? He was sure that everyone in that room had known that Richelieu would have bent the ambassador to his will in half the time, but Richelieu wasn't here. 

Treville didn't have time to think about that either.

About a week after their confrontation in the Cardinal's palace offices, Richelieu had left Paris without a word. According to the people looking after the Palais Cardinal, Richelieu had climbed into his carriage one morning without much more than the briefest necessary notice given to the Louvre and had driven away with a minimal guard, the bulk of his luggage to be send after him.

Treville had only found out about it when he had arrived at court that day, hours after the fact. The Cardinal had given no specific reason for his departure, other than having to look after his health.

His _health_.

During the past weeks, speculations on the reasons behind Richelieu's sudden departure had flourished in all strata of society in Paris.

Some said the Cardinal had left the palace in disgrace, to waste away at his family's estate in the obscurity of exile. Some assumed that Richelieu was dying. They believed that the foulness of the Cardinal's soul had finally corrupted his body and that, like an animal, he had returned to his den to curl up and die.

Others supposed that Richelieu was making good use of his time away stomping out good Catholics who had rebelled at the way the Cardinal was inviting protestant nations into bed with France. 

Others again claimed it were the protestants that Richelieu meant to destroy – with his bare hands in some of the more fanciful tales. 

Most of these rumours were obviously born of nothing but the wonder of human imagination, but despite having tried his hardest to dismiss them, the rumours about Richelieu's failing health haunted Treville. For how could he disprove them?

Should he have written to Richelieu? After weeks of silence, Treville didn't flatter himself thinking Richelieu would have replied to him.

Treville frowned. At least he was sure he would have heard if Richelieu had died or was dying. No one could have kept _that_ quiet, but he couldn't believe Richelieu would leave Paris for his health unless he was in a bad way.

It was true that Richelieu was prone to suffer from headaches and that he seemed to catch fevers with more ease than frogs caught flies if the weather was bad. But none of his ailments had ever driven him away from his duties before. His apparent vulnerability disguised an iron will.

Treville knew the many tales the Cardinal's staff told – in admiration as much as in horror – of the great man working from his sickbed. Treville had _seen_ Richelieu try to decipher letters as fever wrecked him. He'd been there to take those letters from his trembling hands and put him back to bed.

Richelieu's dedication to his duty had been the only thing Treville had ever been certain of during the years that they had known each other. It was the one thing that had convinced Treville that the Cardinal truly had – in his own twisted way – acted on good intentions when he had attempted to take the Queen's life.

It made him tremble to try to imagine the kind of illness that could keep Richelieu from his duty for two months.

Treville tried to focus on the road ahead as they rode back to the garrison and chase away the images in his head, but he couldn't deny that it made his stomach drop to think that Richelieu might have left without a word while he was dangerously ill – as though his health and whereabouts were none of Treville's business. As though they weren't still Captain and Cardinal.

Of course, there could be other reasons for Richelieu's leaving. It was even more likely that he had cited his health as a mere pretext.

When he had been a much younger man, Richelieu had developed a habit of vanishing. Whenever the young Bishop had felt his position at court was precarious, he'd returned to his family estate or his see at Luçon to wait and watch which structures would fall apart without him, and who would attempt to fill the void he left behind. Sometimes, he would leave simply to see how long it took the Queen Regent to miss him.

He had stopped making use of that tactic once King Louis had taken the throne. Since he had been made First Minister Richelieu contended himself with threats. Although as First Minister of France there was too much at stake for Richelieu to actually act on those threats, with a King as weak-willed and as acutely aware of his own weakness as Louis XIII, threats, such as offering to step down, sufficed to make His Majesty give in and do everything in his power to ensure that the Cardinal knew how secure he was in the King's affections.

Treville could only guess what might have made Richelieu go through with one of his threats this time, as it had simply never happened before.

If Richelieu had looked sufficiently hounded to make a convincing case for his health when he had begged his leave of the King two months ago, it was likely that he had looked that way because he _had been_ hounded, for weeks, by none other than some of the King's finest musketeers. Musketeers who Richelieu himself had so recently given his most trusted assassin permission to deal with as she pleased.

On top of that, the Queen had threatened Richelieu. She was finally pregnant again and subsequently His Majesty was more besotted with her than he had ever been before. It could even be that King Louis was besotted with her for the very first time.

It was possible therefore, that Richelieu had fallen back onto his old ways and left Paris to strengthen his position at court by acutely reminding King Louis what he stood to lose without the shrewdest, most competent First Minister he could ever hope for at his side.

But although Treville was ready to believe this was why Richelieu had initially left for his family estate two months ago, he couldn't imagine what kept him there. 

Without Richelieu, the King feared for his throne. His Majesty had written to Richelieu multiple times in the past weeks, enquiring after the Cardinal's health. 

Each of the King's letters would have given Richelieu ample opportunity to return to court with his pride intact. His continued absence meant that either the Cardinal had decided to torture the poor man beyond all reason – and with him the court who had to suffer the King's foul moods – or that something else was keeping him.

The circumstances revealed by the musketeers' investigation in Troyes, as well as Perales' impending arrival had finally driven the King to urge his First Minister to come back without delay more than a week ago. So far, Richelieu had not followed that request, and each passing hour made it more unlikely that the Cardinal would appear in time for the festivities.

Treville didn't know what Richelieu had replied to any of His Majesty's letters. The King had refused to go into detail about their contents, but it simply wasn't like Richelieu to leave his kingdom in the hands of its nominal ruler for so long. 

Which brought Treville's train of thought back to those rumours about his health. The people of Paris had always enjoyed making up garish stories about the King's almighty Minister, but they tended to come up with particularly fanciful tales when Richelieu wasn't around to hear them.

For weeks Treville had had to listen to courtiers gleefully making up stories of boils and rashes and bleeding lungs, and with every day that Richelieu stayed away without a discernible reason the harder it became to ignore them.

Even if Richelieu's continued absence had nothing to do with his health, he had still left without a word, as though there had never been any attachment between them at all, and Treville couldn't deny how that knowledge stung.

During the months following the attempt on the Queen's life Richelieu and Treville hadn't been intimate or had spoken about anything other than business – including the musketeer's attempts to have the Cardinal beheaded. Treville had avoided meeting with him alone during that time as much as possible for fear of compromising either side, desperately unsure of what he was supposed to do. 

What had comforted him during that time was that they had both continued to do their duty – together. Their ability to recognise that they needed each other to keep Louis XIII safely on the throne had not suffered – or so Treville had thought.

All of these rumours reminded him of how frightened Richelieu had been on the night Treville had confronted him about his connection to Gallagher and Milady. 

He shook his head. He hadn't been wrong to call things off. He hadn't been wrong to be angry. But it was much harder to hold on to that anger when he remembered how desperately Richelieu had clung to him… and even harder not to miss him. 

"We're back," d'Artagnan said, and Treville sighed.

Before them was the arch opening up into the garrison courtyard. He was about to address his men about the organisation of the festivities to be held for a diplomat who was likely a Spanish spy involved in an armed uprising. But all he could think about was the man who, a couple of months ago, would have seen the best of his men dead. 

"Captain."

Athos and Porthos greeted them as soon as he and d'Artagnan trotted into the courtyard, offering to hold their horses for them as they dismounted. Aramis was nowhere to be seen, as had become uncommonly frequent as of late. Treville couldn't remember straightaway where the young musketeer was supposed to be. The instant Athos' squad had returned from Troyes, Aramis had begged for palace duty again, and after the good work they had done, Treville hadn't been able to refuse. But the musketeer had asked to be relieved of that duty when the Queen had announced she was going on a pilgrimage so he could join her escort instead.

This request Treville had denied. He needed all four of the musketeers familiar with the smuggling case here, and besides, the amount of free-time Aramis had begun to spent at the palace had begun to worry him.

At one point Treville had to find out which of the Queen's ladies it was that had captured the musketeer's attentions so he could warn Her Majesty to do something about it. Aramis' habit of falling in love only with the women it would be most inconvenient and troublesome to court was not as much of a secret as the young musketeer thought and Treville didn't cherish the idea of having to deal with the complaints of angry parents or jealous fiancés, and even less with the aftermath of a potential ambush on one of his soldiers – even one as exhausting as Aramis.

Whatever affair Aramis had gotten himself entangled in, it threatened to grow into another problem Treville didn't have time for.

It was a testament to how preoccupied Treville was with his various troubles that he didn't notice the grave looks on the Athos' and Porthos' faces until d'Artagnan asked them who had died.

"He's back," Athos said. "Thought you should know right away," he added, but Treville was still slow in catching onto his meaning. Porthos was kind enough to elaborate: "Cardinal's carriage and a band of Red Guards just passed through the city gates."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented so far. You're very motivating. :)

Even though Athos had offered to address the men in the Captain's stead, Treville had not gone to the palace to watch Richelieu put himself at his King's disposal. He refused to drop what he was doing to see Richelieu, and besides, he was certain he was going to see Richelieu soon enough. In the meantime, he had a regiment to run.

After addressing his men as planned, Treville rode back to the palace at their head. Tonight they would be reinforcing the palace guard, as they had been ordered to watch over the ballroom and the gardens where most of the celebration would be taking place.

The musketeers had not been granted this great honour merely because the King meant to show them off to his arrogant Spanish guests. Since the Queen's revelation of her pregnancy, the King's moods had started to alternate between the exultation of the soon-to-be father and the pitch black despair of someone already preparing to mourn another lost child. King Louis' favourites never knew which of their sovereign's faces they would see when they attended his daily rituals. Just last week he had banished the Keeper of the Seal from his royal apartments for having been insultingly cheerful in his presence.

Unfortunately, His Majesty's fear and distrust weren't entirely unfounded. Just a few weeks ago, one of the ladies at court had been found out to be sending very chatty letters to Lorraine, informing His Ducal Highness in great detail about the Queen's health. It was rumoured that the King's brother still hoped to marry into the Duc's family once Kings Louis' objections to such an arrangement were _eliminated_.

The prospect of a new heir to the throne being born was making the enemies of King Louis' rule nervous, all the way up the line of succession.

The only people to have risen in the King's regard without any harmful consequences since the assassination attempt were the musketeers who had defended Her Majesty so admirably. King Louis wanted them at the palace around the clock, particularly at the Queen's apartments, much to the consternation of the palace guard, and during the past two months Treville had done everything in his power to ensure that His Majesty's trust would be rewarded.

Perhaps the armoury didn't need his personal inspection every couple of days, and perhaps he shouldn't have begun to lead the recruits' sparring practice himself, but he was still convinced that putting on a strict training regimen was the best way to protect the regiment from the King's odd moods.

The increased amount of training sessions and constantly reworking inspection plans and guard schedules kept Treville occupied deep into the night and his thoughts from straying to different matters. 

He had told Richelieu that he needed time, hadn't he? That had been two months ago and yet he still hadn't figured out where he stood, because he preferred training and doing paperwork to thinking about how he had left Richelieu.

Treville shook his head. There was be no room for distractions tonight.

He was at the palace, watching the King's noble guests enter the richly decorated ballroom as they were announced, accompanied by their consorts. Every man and woman in this hall was dressed for attention. Every jewel on every dress glittered in the sea of candles that had taken the palace servants the entire day to set up. Great crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling reflected golden candlelight into every nook of the vast hall, illuminating every move of the great and powerful for the musketeers on guard.

So far, the Cardinal was nowhere to be seen, although the King had specifically ordered him to return for this reception. 

He had to show himself. Soon. Unless he didn't show up at all, because he was truly as poorly as some of the rumours claimed. Perhaps he had retreated to the Palais Cardinal directly after his audience with the King. Perhaps he was lying curled up in his bed, attended by a host of helpless physicians.

Treville didn't like to think about _that_ possibility. 

He turned his eyes on the large double-doors at the hall's head where the herald had just announced the next guest, the Duchesse de Troyes. The fair-haired matriarch appeared relaxed, smiling freely when she spotted an acquaintance. As had become usual for her since her husband's passing, she arrived without male companionship. 

Her arrival meant that most of the King's notable guests were now gathered in the ballroom, and that the Spanish delegation would follow soon. The guests of honour entered last, so that no one could miss their entrance.

Propriety required Richelieu to arrive before them, unless he meant to upstage the Spanish delegation by being fashionably late -– and if he was going to arrive at all.

The herald prepared to announce the next arrival and Treville straightened. When the Spanish delegation was announced he nodded to himself, pretending not to notice the pangs of disappointment in his chest.

What was the Cardinal's game? If he was playing a game at all. If he wasn't lying on his sickbed, fighting a fever, choking on his medicine…

Treville forced himself to focus on the Spaniards who were crossing the room to the dais at the end of the hall where the King had taken his seat. Although the crowd of nobles bowed and curtsied politely enough as Perales passed by, some of them shamelessly craned their necks in order to get a better view at the newcomer and his retinue. 

His Majesty bestowed his Spanish guests with a stern frown as Perales addressed King and court. The hours the King had spent in solitude this afternoon had not soothed his dark mood, but fortunately, nothing more than platitudes had to be exchanged at this stage; mutual assurances of solidarity between the two kingdoms. Certain that King Louis and Ambassador Perales would manage that much, Treville turned his attention elsewhere. His duty was to keep an eye on the entire room, not to join the rest of the assembled nobility in analysing Perales' ability to use pretty words to say nothing.

His eyes eventually settled on the ambassador's party. They were easy enough to make out, all dressed in black, which, as Treville had been told by the King's Master of Ceremonies, was the fashionable colour at the Spanish court for the moment, a fact that set them apart from the many peacocks of King Louis' court.

Treville took a long look at any particularly attractive young people among the group. There would be dancing later that night – King Louis would risk a riot if it weren't so – and if Treville was any judge, the ambassador's young secretary in particular had good chances of breaking many hearts tonight with his dark eyes, lithe figure and tousled hair. If the young man knew how to play his cards right, he could win more support tonight for his master with a show of deft feet than His Excellency could hope to gain within a year of diplomacy.

The court musicians striking up a popular tune signalled the end of the formalities for now, and the guests began to mingle, occasionally making trips in between bits of gossip to the large buffet that had been uncovered. 

Treville caught sight of Perales among the crowd and froze. It appeared that the ambassador had no intention to return to his party. In fact, it looked as though Perales was headed in his direction.

When there was no immediate threat demanding his position at the King's side, Treville preferred to remain on the periphery of celebrations like these. The French nobility and most of the King's foreign guests at court understood that the Captain of the Musketeers attended the King's balls to guard, not to socialise, but it appeared that no one had apprised the ambassador of this fact. 

Why Perales wanted to speak to him again so soon after their not particularly amicable conversation this afternoon was the true riddle. Perhaps his secretary had reminded him how much the French King valued his Captain. 

"Captain Treville."

Treville bowed his head as the Spaniard walked up to him and hoped he had managed to banish the confusion from his face. "Ambassador Perales."

"What an impressive assembly you're watching over, Captain."

Treville nodded. As he had already proven today, sweet-talking strangers, especially the King's foreign diplomatic guests, was not his strong suit. King Louis had other men for that – one man in particular who remained conspicuous in his absence.

"I find a court is much like an orchard, wouldn't you agree?"

"I'm afraid I don't have much experience with gardening," Treville replied, careful not to let his bewilderment show.

It was easy enough to guess that Perales hoped to make him part of some agenda, but Treville was at a loss trying to figure out what the Spaniard expected to gain from it. Apart from his Majesty, Treville wasn't exactly close to the men and women who ran the court, _precisely_ because he tended to stay at the side-lines of events like these. And Perales should already have realised that Treville would not be used to obtain special treatment from the King for anyone.

When Perales continued to smile at him, Treville didn't know whether the ambassador was laughing at his joke or at him.

"Then perhaps you see yourself more as a kind of shepherd?"

If it was Perales' agenda to confuse Treville, it was working, but at least the ambassador wasn't talking about his guards again.

"You will find no sheep here," Treville said. _Merely a wide array of predatory animals playing dress-up._

"Really? What about—"

Perales' further insight into the agricultural qualities of the French court were cut short as the herald announced a late arrival. 

A hush fell over the crowd, or perhaps it was the sudden rush of blood in Treville's ears drowning out all other sound, as the double-doors swung open to reveal Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal-Duc de Richelieu.

The nobles, who had politely stepped aside for the Spanish delegation so shortly before, parted before the Cardinal like the sea before the prophet.

There was no hint of sickness in his confident stride as Richelieu walked up to the King. Although he wore no jewellery except for a simple, golden pectoral cross and his rings of office, the great man's attire put the glittering crowd to shame. 

For the reception of the esteemed ambassador of France's Most Catholic neighbours Richelieu had put on his most impressive robes, made of layers and layers of deep red silk that accentuated his fair skin and pale blue eyes. Only at the rims of his sleeves and collar hints of white lace showed, directing the eye to his uncovered neck and his slender, long-fingered hands.

_Damn that bastard._

Treville remembered every single occasion on which Richelieu had worn these robes: to receive foreign royalty or to lead a mass on the holiest days of the year. He wore them rarely to prevent them from losing their effect on the court. They had never lost their effect on Treville. The flowing silk was so fine that Richelieu had more than once had occasion to chide him playfully whenever the fabric had caught on the callouses of his rough palms. 

_'You are going to pull a thread,'_ Richelieu had said.

_'Then you had better take them off'._

Treville looked away. Richelieu had no right to look this gorgeous with all the rumours abounding about his failing health. 

"Armand!" The King's shout shattered the silence. The entire room was witness to the joy that seeing his friend and advisor brought him. Upon reaching the King, Richelieu fell to his knees, his red robes pooling around him. He bowed his head in deference, touching a delicate hand to the golden cross resting on his chest as though he was addressing his God instead of his King.

Treville didn't want to guess what his musketeers were thinking as they watched that scene. A few months ago this man had meant to silence them to cover up his treason and now he was back, still all-powerful and beloved by his King. The Queen had been wise to spare herself the sight. Although she had claimed to have forgiven the Cardinal, it was unlikely she would ever _forget_.

"I am glad to see you well, Cardinal." The King rose from his seat to help his friend up, breaking protocol for him as had become usual ever since His Majesty had chosen to support Richelieu over his own mother. 

The King didn't know what Richelieu had told Treville two months ago: _'I serve the crown, not those who wear it.'_

"Don't you know that you can't deprive me of your advice for this long?"

"My apologies, Sire."

Richelieu didn't even attempt to hide his look of triumph as the King smiled at him.

"I will forgive you this once." The King's grin widened as he spoke, and if anyone in this room had paid any heed to the rumours that Richelieu had fled the court for lack of royal support, those fancies had been effectively stamped out. 

Treville looked on as King Louis leaned in close, more serious now, whispering secrets that only his First Minister could hear. By the way Richelieu's face disappeared behind one of the stiff masks he usually reserved for court business, Treville could guess what the King had told him.

He clenched his jaw as he remembered what else was expected of him tonight.

It was going to be a long evening.

"Quite the entrance. Your Cardinal has a flair for the dramatic, I see."

Treville flinched when he remembered that Perales was still standing next to him.

"The Cardinal and his Majesty are old friends," Treville offered, doing what he could to pretend composure. Had Perales caught him staring? Had he seen him frown?

But Perales evidently wasn't interested in what the Captain thought of the First Minister.

"Now," the ambassador said. "You were telling me about the King's flock, I believe—"

"There they are!"

It didn't look like Perales would ever be able to finish his thoughts about the sheep of France. The King was leading Richelieu towards them and Treville straightened, to stop his shoulders from dropping. 

Of course they were coming over. After all, the King had to introduce his First Minister to the Spanish ambassador. 

It took all of Treville's willower not to avert his eyes again. It was childish; unworthy of the Captain of the King's favoured guard regiment, but he couldn't bear to watch the confidence in Richelieu's stride after he had puzzled over his fate for weeks.

Two months since he'd seen him last. Longer than that, almost five months, since they had touched.

"Treville!"

Treville acknowledged his monarch with a bow. When he raised his head, King and Cardinal were standing in front of him.

"Will you introduce His Excellency to the Cardinal for me?"

The stern look had reappeared on King Louis' face and Treville expelled a deep breath. It really _was_ going to be a long evening.

"Your Eminence." Treville cleared his throat. The words stuck in his throat. He kept any eye-contact with Richelieu brief – too brief to convey any meaning. He simply must have imagined that questioning look in the Cardinal's eyes. 

"Allow me to introduce his Excellency, Ambassador Perales, Grandee of Spain."

The King beamed at them, his grin just a smidgen too wide to be comforting. "I am sure you two have a lot to discuss." His words left it open whether he meant Richelieu and Perales or Richelieu and Treville, but the significant look he gave Treville was less ambiguous. He wanted Treville and Richelieu to get to work as soon as possible.

Having said his part, King Louis returned to his seat, clearly not interested in having another conversation with the ambassador.

The Cardinal, however, much to the Captain's dismay, seemed _very_ interested in having a conversation. 

A benevolent smile spread across Richelieu's face as Perales bent down to kiss his cardinal's ring like a good Catholic. That delicate, long-fingered-hand—

Treville forced his eyes away to look at Perales, but this merely brought sharp attention to the astounding physical disparity between Richelieu and the Spaniard. Perales was a small man, who, although younger than the Cardinal, was already balding. Even in his fashionable Spanish court dress he could not hope to compete with the impressive figure of the tall Frenchman with his scarlet robes and his full head of soft, silky hair. The ambassador really would do well to rely on his lovely secretary to do most of the charming for him in this court of carnivorous peacocks. 

"Cardinal Richelieu, I feared you might not make it in time." Perales' smile looked about as sincere as Richelieu's. "It does not appear that your stay in the countryside did much to improve your health."

Treville pinned Perales with a glare, an unvoiced growl stuck in his throat. _Maybe_ there were shadows under the Cardinal's eyes. _Maybe_ his pallor was not an illusion caused by the exceptionally rich red of his robes. _Maybe_ he had been recovering from a sickness at his family estate.

_Maybe_

A respectful guest had no business bringing it up. From the ambassador of a nation that was presently working so hard to pretend that its relations to France weren't as strained as they were, these words could only be taken as an insult – or a threat.

The tell-tale twitch of Richelieu's mouth that meant he was hiding a smirk made Treville blink. He must have been glowering at Perales as though he had meant to murder him, and Richelieu had seen it. Fortunately, it appeared that Perales hadn't. The ambassador kept smiling at the Cardinal as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, and Treville took care to adopt a less hostile, if not entirely friendly expression as Richelieu spoke.

"Don't concern yourself about me, ambassador. What matters is that you made it to Paris in one piece."

"I was pleasantly surprised." Perales' face glowed with mirth. "The roads of France weren't as infested by bandits as I had been warned."

Again Richelieu refused to react to the insult. "Being offered this position must have come to you as a relief."

The Cardinal allowed his smile to spread as Perales' froze.

"It is an honour to serve King Philip, in any capacity." A hint of a stammer stole itself into the ambassador's speech. Whatever Richelieu was getting at, it appeared that Perales had only just caught on. It was deeply satisfying to watch him falter and Treville had to fight to keep the excitement from showing on his face.

_There were no sheep here._

"If I were prone to making assumptions about such things," Richelieu continued, "I'd reckon that the wrath Minister Olivares expressed about your failure to bring the Catalans to heel during your tenure as governor does not look quite as threatening from Paris."

Perales bore the humiliation with a grin that couldn't have been anything but desperate. "I always thought omniscience was reserved for our Lord, Your Eminence, not his earthly ministers. But it appears what they say about you is true: there is nothing you don't know."

"There may well be _some_ things I don't know, but there are always ways to find out," Richelieu kept smiling sweetly. "Such as your correspondence to Madame Chaillot, who has been so recently arrested for conspiracy against the Crown."

"Madame—?" Perales blinked, his put-on cheerfulness slipping for the briefest of moments. "Madame Chaillot? I'm afraid I do not follow?"

"There is no need to be concerned, Your Excellency." But despite the reassuring words, all colour drained from Perales' cheeks as Richelieu continued. "From what I hear, almost all of your letters to her were found unopened under a pile of correspondence from her more successful admirers. However, there is still an empty cell next to hers in the Bastille if you yearn for a reunion."

Perales gasped. "I am a subject of the Spanish crown! I—"

"Indeed, ambassador." Richelieu held up his palms in a placatory gesture. A handful of the surrounding courtiers had interrupted their feasting to look over to them. They were beginning to murmur, and Treville had to pretend to intently study his boots in order to hide his smirk. His efforts were in vain. When he looked up again he caught Richelieu stealing a glance at him before he turned his attention back to Perales.

Treville swallowed. _Damn him for smiling at Richelieu's wit._ And damn Richelieu for the way the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled back.

"And we are Spain's good friends." Richelieu continued in the same smooth tone, as though nothing had just passed between the Captain and him. If not for the red robes accentuating his fair complexion, Treville might have missed the rose tint that had appeared on Richelieu's cheeks.

_This man would have killed the Queen. He would have killed Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan and Aramis._

"We must not forget that we are united by the ties that bind our royal houses. Your country has not made us regret that agreement, yet."

Perales pulled at his clothes to collect himself before nodding wordlessly, his face flushed red with embarrassment. He was saved from further humiliation when the large double doors at the head of hall opened to admit entrance to the adjacent hall, where the King's guests were to attend a ballet.

"Captain, Cardinal."

Perales excused himself, rushing back to his landsmen in the centre of the hall. The noble bystanders attracted by his outburst formed an alley for him to escape through, but they did not spare him their curious, amused looks as he passed.

"That went well," The Cardinal remarked. He had every right to look so satisfied. It would be nearly impossible for Perales to win over any of the courtiers who had been witness to his humiliation any time soon, but Treville no longer felt like laughing.

"Follow me." His hand twitched, instinctively itching to grab Richelieu's sleeve to catch his attention. 

Two months, five months' time even, were but a single grain of sand in an hourglass that had counted years.

While all eyes were pinned on Perales, Treville led the way to the nearest exit – an inconspicuous door concealed in the wooden panelling of the wall that hid a narrow staircase. Richelieu followed without asking any questions.

The stairs took them down to a kitchen area where fresh additions to the evening's buffet were being prepared. Richelieu, in his long, layered robes, had to hurry to keep with Treville's long strides as they continued past another set of rooms. The sooner they got to business the better.

 _Business_ was something they could both handle. _Business_ didn't require soft smiles and softer looks, and Treville had high hopes that he could manage this business without making even more of a fool of himself.

Pushing on, Treville lead Richelieu into a small study featuring a low, round table at its centre, the surface of which was covered in maps and other rolled up documents neatly arranged around a narrow wooden box. 

"The King didn't call you back just to make an impression on Perales," Treville said as he walked across the room, quickly putting the table between himself and Richelieu.

"That much is rather obvious." The Cardinal frowned. "You clearly didn't take me here to be social."

Ignoring the pangs in his chest, and without further preamble, Treville retrieved a heavy pistol from the box and placed it onto the table. 

"This is why you're here."

Stepping closer, Richelieu gingerly ran his long fingers over the shining metal of the gun barrel that was yet unmarred by powder burns or signs of use and wear.

Treville looked away. "The musketeers have intercepted a suspicious shipment of arms on its way to Troyes," he said.

"Any indication who sent it?" Richelieu asked. He picked up the weapon with careful, elegant movements just as Treville leaned across to point at a spot on the shining barrel. Their hands touched, skin on skin, and the gun nearly jumped out of Richelieu's grip

Treville drew back immediately. The hint he had been about to give Richelieu stuck in his throat.

Richelieu didn't need to have the obvious pointed out to him anyway. Regardless of what else he was, the Cardinal was still the brightest man in France, and he spotted what was missing immediately. 

"The blacksmith's mark has been filed away." Somehow he managed to sound incredibly composed. "A sacrilege for any craftsman."

A sacrilege that told them two things: First, whoever had manufactured the guns in question likely didn't know what their goods were used for, for no blacksmith, no matter the depravity of the crimes they were involved in, would have agreed on having their mark removed, out of no other reason than simple artistic pride.

Secondly, it followed that whoever had committed this sacrilege had good reason to cover their tracks. 

"The guns appear to be of Spanish manufacture," Treville explained as he retreated back behind the table. "The locking mechanism is different from what is commonly made here, and Spain doesn't export arms to France…"

"Unless they are supporting another coup," Richelieu finished.

Treville nodded, rubbing his hand. He could still feel that ghostly touch, light as a feather.

"The question is, _who_ are they supporting?" 

Richelieu furrowed his brow. _He_ didn't appear to have any problems focusing on the issue at hand, and Treville felt the pangs in his chest being replaced by a wave of anger. Anger directed at himself, mostly. 

He had made his decision against Richelieu, for a good reason, for the musketeers...

"Didn't your musketeers make inquiries when they intercepted this shipment?"

"How much did His Majesty tell you?" Treville would have preferred if sensitive details hadn't been brought up in the ballroom – even in a whisper.

"The man who tipped them off was one of my agents."

"You already knew about this?" Treville stared, surprised at even being surprised. Making himself indispensable by keeping vital information to himself was something Richelieu had practice in. But before the attempt on the Queen's life Treville would still have trusted that Richelieu would never keep suspicions of a _coup_ from him, and now he appeared to have done it twice in less than half a year.

Richelieu rolled his eyes. "Despite what the ambassador thinks, I am not omniscient. Reports of suspicious activities in Troyes reached me only _after_ your men had been informed. News takes a while to travel from Paris to Richelieu, but my agents don't stop looking for threats merely because I am away from court. They are also the ones who reported Madame Chaillot's correspondence with Lorraine."

Treville took a moment to process what Richelieu had just said. "You didn't tell your men to confer with you first before they took any information they unearthed to my musketeers?"

"My agents serve France first, as you do – and your men, I presume." Richelieu's lips twisted into a dark smile as he replaced the gun on the table. "This never occurred to you?"

Treville opened his mouth but shut it again when no words would come to him. He had said many things in the past about what he thought of the Cardinal's agents, their methods, and the vehemence with which Richelieu had tricked both of them into _believing_ that these spies and assassins were necessary. But these men evidently knew their duty, even when it meant they had to put Treville and his musketeers on the scene.

Without these agents, the musketeers would not have learned about the shipments in time to stop at least one of them.

"I wonder what Perales could tell us about the guns," Treville spat, hoping to get rid of the bitter taste on his tongue.

"He didn't tell you anything noteworthy tonight?"

Treville snorted. "He was talking about livestock."

Richelieu frowned. This was clearly not what he had hoped to hear.

"You believe Perales is involved in whatever this is about, by his King's sanction?" Treville asked. "Even though Olivares hates his guts?"

"I believe this appointment here is Perales' last chance to regain the First Minister's favour – for which the ambassador will do positively anything."

Much like Richelieu's sway over King Louis, the Spanish favourite's power and influence at his King Philip's court could not be overestimated. Treville wondered what kinds of back-alley stabbings Olivares arranged behind his King's back if they were intimidating enough to drive a man like Perales all the way to Paris.

Richelieu rubbed his goatee as he started to pace. "You said these shipments were intercepted on the way to Troyes?"

"Yes."

"If these guns were made in Spain, the smugglers had to travel quite a way through French territory before they reached their destination." The Cardinal paused. "King Philip doesn't undertake risks like that lightly."

It was true that up until now, the Spanish royals had preferred more covert, safer ways to encourage seditious movements in France, but Richelieu obviously didn't know everything yet.

"From what my musketeers could find out, the weapons changed hands at least twice before they reached the duché. They appear to have entered France through Sedan."

Richelieu's eyes flashed.

_There it was._

Although Spain had long sought to disrupt the alliances between France and her protestant neighbours in the name of defending Catholicism, they had never been Catholic enough to refrain from colluding with that proud stronghold of Calvinism in the North.

So far, any efforts of the Spanish Crown to support unrest in France – none of them proven to have been undertaken with the knowledge of King Philip of course – had passed through the city of Sedan, a Protestant fortress that sat right on the border between France and the Spanish Netherlands. This small principality, barely more than a city state, had been a hotbed of rebellion ever since it had claimed its independence during the Wars of Religion.

But since its Lord, the Duc de Bouillon, had been a close friend of King Henri and could depend on the vast fortunes of his late wife, he had been able to buy his way out of any trouble his questionable connections to Spain and other, even more obvious enemies of the Crown had put him in.

Enemies such as Gaston, the King's brother, who was always jealous, always waiting for a chance to win the throne he believed to be his rightful property. The advantages that noblemen of any confession who were unpopular with Louis XIII, such as the Lord of Sedan, could hope to win by offering their services as kingmakers to the meddlesome prince were obvious.

"There have been three shipments in total over the last three months," Treville continued.

"And they were all delivered to Troyes?" Richelieu stopped pacing. "What happened to the other two?"

Treville suppressed a sigh. Here began the inglorious part of the tale. But before he could reply, the door behind him swung open to admit King Louis. 

It was clear from a single glance at the King's face that his good mood prompted by the Cardinal's return had vanished. His frown grew even darker when he took in the sight of his advisors standing miles apart.

And then the King's gaze fell on the gun on the table. He turned towards Richelieu.

"Did Treville tell you of what has transpired?"

"We were just discussing the details," Treville explained and the King sighed dramatically.

"My own subjects plotting against me. Again! With the help of my own brother-in-law!"

"With respect, Sire," Treville said. "We cannot say for certain whether King Philip has any knowledge of the smuggled arms. It could be any Spanish faction at work."

"A King knows everything that's going on at his court, Treville!"

A lifetime of practice allowed Treville to keep a straight face, and the King rambled on.

"If this is anything to do with Spain, _he_ knows of it! Yet he dares to send me this annoying little man and expects me to throw him a ball, when all he should be granted is a cell in the Bastille!"

"We cannot say whether Perales is involved either."

"Which doesn't make any of these events any less worrisome."

Treville promptly threw Richelieu a dark look. This was not the time to encourage the King's paranoid fancies, but of course Treville was not surprised that Richelieu was quick to make use of every opportunity to endear himself to his monarch.

"Thank you, Armand!"

The King beamed at his First Minister and Richelieu put on one of his thin-lipped smiles. "I believe what the Captain meant to imply, Sire, is that regardless of who sent these guns, finding out who is meant to _use_ them remains the more pressing matter."

"You are right, of course, my dear Cardinal."

Treville barely had time to hide his surprise before two sets of inquiring eyes turned towards him. Richelieu had charmed the King to support him.

Treville cleared his throat. "I was just about to explain to the Cardinal that from what information the musketeers gathered over the last month, it looks as though the first two shipments reached their final destination in the vicinity of the city of Troyes."

"That is not very precise."

"The parties involved possessed enough foresight to conduct their business at a busy roadside inn rather than within the city itself."

"But you have a way to identify the recipient of these shipments? You mentioned the Duchesse?"

"One of the men my musketeers questioned claimed he was delivering the merchandise into the hands of the Duchesse de Troyes' men. Her estates are vast. She could feasibly have the means to raise the number of men needed to put these weapons to use, and she has the defences to make extracting her costly should she fail. However, we still lack tangible evidence of her involvement in the affair."

The King wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I can't believe she dared to accept my invitation to this ball. Your men should have arrested her the moment she set foot in my palace."

Treville couldn't deny that it had been a tempting thought at the time. Coming to Paris was a brazen move, _if_ it was true that she had a hand in the smuggling. Treville had specifically asked the King not to rescind her invitation when he had first informed him about the suspicions against the Duchesse in order not to upset her, in case she had something to hide – and to see if she would dare to come.

Unfortunately, her coming here wasn't evidence of anything.

"A most troublesome person," Richelieu agreed, expelling a sigh.

If Treville remembered correctly, the Duchesse had managed to successfully delay the King's demolition of the old keep in the city of Troyes through petitions and excuses for quite a while now. Ever since the fall of La Rochelle a couple years ago, Richelieu had increased his efforts to raze every fortress in France not situated on the borders or manned by the King's own troops in the hopes of discouraging further uprisings.

So far, the promise of a generous compensation for the loss of their defences had proved the most effective way to convince the French nobility to agree to the scheme. But since there were so many other projects in need of the crown's funding, Richelieu's efforts in that regard proceeded only very slowly. Threats of being tried for treason were only a distant second motivation, since a well-fortified keep was the best means to make enforcing threats of that nature as difficult and costly as possible for the Crown. It explained how the Duchesse de Troyes had gotten away with dragging her feet for so long. She simply hadn't been a priority. 

These new suspicions could change that – if they proved substantial enough. It was hard to imagine the Duchesse supporting a violent uprising over an old keep. 

"None of this warrants her arrest," Treville reminded his companions. "As of yet, we cannot prove her involvement. If we take action against her without evidence and we are wrong about her part in the affair, we are going to send the real culprit deeper into hiding."

"Then give me evidence, Treville! What do I pay your musketeers for? All traitors to their sovereigns deserve death!"

Treville suffered the King's outburst without ill will. The musketeers had done what they could, but that was hard to see for a King who had lost his father to an assassin's knife and who had been fighting usurpers – including his own mother – since the day he had been crowned.

"A King mustn't appear cruel, your Majesty, if he hopes to gain a reputation for being just."

Treville looked up to send the Cardinal a thankful nod before he could stop himself. Once more Richelieu proved himself the voice of reason. This quality had been sorely lacking at the palace during the weeks of his absence. If the Queen hadn't begged to go on her pilgrimage to avoid the Cardinal, she had done it to escape the King's increasingly obsessive worry for her safety and that of their child.

King Louis made a face. "That's why I have you, Armand, isn't that so?"

Treville's eyes snapped back to the Cardinal, but Richelieu calmly cleared his throat, choosing to ignore the King's observation. "Perhaps we should establish the Duchesse's possible motivation for cooperating with this scheme before we accuse her." 

The King nodded. He appeared to have composed himself again. He put much pride in his reputation as a just ruler.

"How believable are the smugglers' statements?" Richelieu asked. He sounded unruffled, as though he hadn't just seen Treville bite his tongue. "A man will claim a lot to escape the noose."

"They didn't know the men who ambushed them were King's Musketeers. They believed them to be bandits and gave up the Duchesse's name without being prompted. They believed they were being robbed and meant to warn the bandits of whose goods they were trifling with."

"But they may also have mentioned any nobleman's name that came to mind to scare your men?"

"Yes." Treville wished he could have told Richelieu and the King something more substantial, but it was the regrettable truth. Geneviève de Troyes was one of the wealthiest, most influential nobles in the East. "Since we are lacking other leads, I decided it would be worth it to investigate her regardless. Even if the people who sent these weapons never realise who it was that interrupted their last delivery and they don't decide to change their route because of it, we cannot afford to wait for them to make another shipment before we continue our investigation."

Treville pulled out a list from among the papers on the table and handed it to Richelieu.

"Muskets, pistols, powder," Treville explained. "This is not someone innocently raising a militia to hunt down highwaymen. If the first two shipments were as large the third, there could be real trouble soon."

Richelieu's face darkened as he kept reading. "You said the musketeers _interrupted_ this latest shipment?"

Treville nodded. "The initial plan was to inspect the contents of that waggon without taking action against the smugglers before whoever ordered these shipments arrived. But the musketeers were unable to separate the men from their cargo without causing suspicion."

"Why am I not surprised?"

Treville flashed him a dirty look. " _Your_ man couldn't even tell us we were looking for Spanish guns. The musketeers were on the right track. They determined the smuggler's route from the information your agent gave them, and while we do not know who intends to use these guns, the partial success of my men means that the recipient is one waggon-load short of their goal, giving us time to find them."

"Unfortunately, time isn't enough," Richelieu shot back, no less unfriendly. "Think! I believe it is very clear who these weapons are for. These guns – wherever they originated – entered France through Sedan, and Troyes remains one of the largest centres of heresy within our borders. Why else would the Duchesse cling to her keep if she didn't intend to make use of it?" He paced around the table. "How far is this roadside inn from her estates?"

"Not far," Treville said. "She has a summer residence about an hour's ride away." He paused. "You really think she is supporting a Huguenot uprising? After La Rochelle? After Privas?"

Another civil war was the last thing they needed. Treville could still smell the pyres on which the dead of La Rochelle had burned. The memory of that stench made him nauseous. There had simply been too many bodies to bury, and too few of those who had survived the siege had been strong enough to dig. Richelieu couldn't have forgotten what they had found in that city.

But before the Cardinal could even open his mouth, the King threw his hands up. "My father – wise and gentle man that he was – raised _her_ father's estate to a duché to honour his promise to stomach the Huguenots on his lands; not to hand it over to an actual Huguenot!"

Tiny, icy spider legs ran up his Treville's spine. "The Duchesse is Catholic," he said. "Apart from her attachment to that keep she has never given us cause for grief." 

Whatever this was, the Huguenots couldn't be behind it. They couldn't be so stupid. After their last uprising the populations of entire cities had been massacred before King and Cardinal had been able to put an end to the atrocities of His Majesty's overzealous generals. Although their religious freedoms survived, protected by the King's Edict of Grace, the Huguenots had been stripped of all other privileges Henri IV. had won for them. Not a single Huguenot stronghold had been left standing on French soil.

If they provoked King and Cardinal into another war, there would be no one and nothing left to spare.

Treville's heart sank when he saw a dark smile grace Richelieu's lips. "She _claims_ to be Catholic."

"What do you propose? Have her take the communion to prove her loyalty and burn her if she spits it out?"

Treville remembered the sermons of his childhood, about the heresy of the papal doctrine and the many sins of the Catholic church. He remembered how scandalised he had been as a boy, wondering how anyone could believe in devouring divine flesh and blood.

"Spain openly persecutes protestants. Why would the Huguenots buy Spanish arms?"

Richelieu shrugged. "The Inquisition's hunt for their brother's in faith has never stopped Sedan from being suspiciously friendly to our neighbours. Troyes took in great numbers of Huguenots during the wars," he continued. "If the Duchesse is not a Huguenot herself, she is at least sympathetic." 

Treville felt sick as he looked at the Cardinal. His robes were as bright as fresh blood. "There is a line between welcoming refugees and supporting an uprising."

Richelieu hesitated, falling silent for a moment. "She may not be aware of what is happening in her duché," he mused. "Either way, we should consider removing her to prevent the conspirators from abusing her protection."

Something in Treville howled as he watched Richelieu bite his thumb in excitement as he paced, deep in thought. Once the Cardinal had embarked on a course he tended to follow it to its end. 

_Had he looked like this when he had convinced himself that the Queen of France had to die?_

"This is a mistake."

He clenched his fist. His hand still remembered the touch of Richelieu's skin against his.

"That is enough for now."

Captain and Cardinal turned to face their King. Somehow, for a moment, Treville had forgotten that he was in the room with them.

"Please, follow me."

An odd expression had replaced the anger on the King's face as he rushed out of the door. Treville didn't know what it meant, but it did not ease the queasy feeling in his stomach one bit. A single look at Richelieu told him that the Cardinal had no idea what had gotten into the King's head either.

"We are heading back to the reception," King Louis said as his advisors drew level with him.

"You cannot believe the matter closed." There was a distinct hint of apprehension in Richelieu's voice.

"While you two were fighting – again – I conceived a plan."

Now Treville was truly worried. "Your Majesty, it would help to know what kind of plan it is."

A disturbingly pleased smile stole itself onto the King's face. "You will see."

Treville wanted to grab him, force him to explain himself then and there, but they were almost back at the ballroom and he couldn't risk a causing scene. He didn't want to imagine what impression the King's theatrics would leave on the ambassador.

 _Oh dear Lord_ , he had almost forgotten about Perales. Whatever King Louis intended to do, Perales was going to witness it, and through him, King Philip.

"Your Majesty, I cannot recommend accusing the Duchesse de Troyes at this point—"

If Perales knew anything about the smuggled arms and he saw—

"That isn't what I had in mind, Treville."

"Your Majesty, I must insist—"

But it was too late. They had reached the ballroom and the musketeers stationed at the entrance were throwing open the doors for their King. 

The ballet was over already, and the entire court was assembled in the large hall to witness whatever his Majesty had in mind. Perhaps it was harmless. Perhaps—

"Troyes!" 

All eyes moved from the King to the Duchesse and Treville's heart stopped beating.

"Your Majesty." Troyes' voice carried through the ballroom that had gone conspicuously quiet, prompting Treville to throw a dark look at the musicians who hastily started playing again.

Whatever it was that the King was going to tell the Duchesse, the entire ballroom didn't need to hear it.

Troyes curtseyed as the surrounding nobles retreated to make a path for their King.

His Majesty bade her to rise and put on a magnanimous smile as he watched her smooth the skirts of her dress – purple laced in black. Geneviève de Troyes had lost her husband more than a decade ago, she was still wearing her widowhood like a uniform. She was older than Treville, perhaps around the Cardinal's age, still childless, but, as a Duchesse in her own right, she had never seen the need to remarry. Since she had become the head of the family after the old Duc's death, there was probably a lot of pressure on her to remain unattached, as a new family connection would mean new heirs.

"Troyes, I hear you have a pretty summer residence."

"I do, Sire," the Duchesse answered. Standing before here King, calm, composed and wearing a look of reverence on her youthfully-smooth face, she was the image of the model courtier. "If I may be so presumptuous as to call anything I own pretty while surrounded by the beauty of Your Majesty's magnificent palace."

"You will entertain us there." 

A surprised gasp went through the crowd.

Treville had to fight to keep a neutral expression. This was, admittedly, not quite as bad as what he had feared the King might say, but still ludicrous. Another glance at Richelieu confirmed that the Cardinal was feeling the same way. Richelieu couldn't possibly draw his eyebrows any closer together.

"It's the season for fowl," the King continued, oblivious to the warning glances his advisors exchanged, "and I must get out of this rotting prison. Paris doesn't agree with me during this time of year."

"Of course, Your Majesty." Troyes blanched, which was no unusual reaction to being asked to host the royal court. Her family fortune had to be dwindling before her eyes. "It will be a great honour, but," her cheeks regained colour as she flushed, "as a poor widow I have to admit I know very little about preparing a hunt."

"You have a steward, don't you?" 

"I do, sire."

"And male relatives? I believe you have a nephew."

She pressed her lips together to a thin line and Treville had to sneak another glance at Richelieu to make sure he had seen it as well. He wondered what this nephew had done to displease her so.

"I do."

"It is a shame that you have never brought him to court before."

Despite his fright, Treville couldn't help but admire the fact that even although the King's knowledge of some areas of politics appeared to be lacking a lot of the time, he knew his way around his court admirably.

"I fear if I introduce him to your magnificent court one of your ladies is going to steal him away. He is all I have left of his dear parents. "

The King's smile widened. "I should like to finally meet him. Please, ask him to organise the hunt."

"I will tell him that, Your Majesty," the Duchesse replied. The hard to define smile tugging at her lips made Treville wonder whether her amusement was directed at the King's plans or her nephew. He made a mental note to look into the young man's history before the King could go anywhere.

"Excellent!" 

Richelieu and Treville exchanged another look.

"Sire—" Treville began, but the King cut him off.

"You will not deny me this, Captain, after my last hunt was cut so woefully short."

"Because of an attempt on Her Majesty's life!"

"I will be perfectly safe at Troyes." He turned back to the Duchesse. "Because my Captain and my dear Cardinal will travel ahead and prepare my arrival."

Treville's mouth opened and closed, but all language had fled him.

The Duchesse bowed. "It will be an honour to receive them. When may I expect them? In a month?"

"It is my wish that they accompany you to Troyes once the reception has concluded." 

For a moment the Duchesse's expression mirrored how Treville felt. "Sire—"

The King couldn't possibly be serious…

"Your Majesty," Richelieu cut in. In the more than twenty years of their acquaintance Treville had learned how to interpret all the signs of rising panic in Richelieu. To anyone who didn't know him as well as the Captain did the way his Adam's apple bobbed and his nostrils flared would have been barely perceptible next to the intensity of the clear, blue eyes that demanded the King to 'pay attention to me now.'

His voice was calm, but on the inside Richelieu was trembling.

"There are matters of state to attend here. A hunt at this time—"

But the King wouldn't hear him out. "How can there be any matters to attend in Paris when the King isn't there, Cardinal?" he tutted. "What good is it to wait to hunt until my quarry will have flown south for the winter?" He turned back to the poor widow. "I will follow my loyal advisors within a fortnight. That should give you enough time to prepare."

It was practically no time considering the logistic feats necessary to entertain the entire court for any length of time – particularly if you had to inconspicuously hide a large amount of smuggled arms at the same time. Treville couldn't deny that this attempt to catch the Duchesse flat-footed wasn't the worst idea the King had ever uttered, but that didn't mean walking into the lion's den was wise. And the King intended to send the Cardinal in first without a chance to prepare. Richelieu had only just returned…

"I am afraid my summer residence is inadequately furnished to receive two such exalted guests without preparation, since I moved back to Troyes to spend the fall at my main residence."

"You don't have enough furniture for two guests?" the King asked, just loud enough to make his words impossible to overhear even for the few courtiers in the hall who weren't actively trying to listen in. 

At the French court, embarrassment was a powerful weapon and the Duchesse visibly fought to keep a straight face. She had to be imagining the gossip about the destitute state of her properties that would have spread all over Paris by morning if she didn't immediately say something to counter it. 

"I am certain my nephew will gladly surrender his apartments to accommodate His Eminence and the Captain. I am merely concerned for your musketeers and His Eminence's guards. The place can be a bit draughty during the cold season. I presume Your Majesty does not intend to make his treasured advisors travel all the way without their guards and servants?"

The King waved aside all of her concerns. "Their guards are soldiers. They are used to much harsher conditions than missing a warm bed for a couple of days, isn't that so, Treville?"

With the Duchesse watching them closely, Treville had no choice but to agree. "Yes, Your Majesty." The lack of beds wasn't what worried him.

"It is agreed then? You will leave for Troyes tomorrow and prepare a reception?"

_Tomorrow._

"Your Majesty, the Duchesse has only arrived in Paris today. It is a journey of two days to Troyes, perhaps she should be allowed a day of rest."

If they hadn't been surrounded by the entire court, including Perales' suite, Treville would have told the King what he thought about having to order his musketeers to move out _tomorrow_ in much clearer words.

"Leaving tomorrow means I won't have to waste my time unpacking." The Duchesse offered a conciliatory smile.

The Cardinal, although he looked pale, offered no objection. Treville guessed that he hadn't had the time to settle back into his Palais either. But while the journey from Troyes took about two days, the journey from Richelieu to Paris would have taken him at least twice as long. 

"Excellent!" Louis continued to smile. "My musketeers will be ready to accompany you back to Troyes by noon. I am looking forward to seeing your chateau. Perhaps when I am there, we can talk about the money you need in order to demolish that ugly old keep that has been defacing your beautiful city for too long."

Treville coughed to disguise his flinching. This, too, wasn't the worst thing King Louis could have said to the Duchesse, but drawing attention to the keep that was likely to play a role in any uprising brewing in Troyes was not without risk.

To the Duchesse's credit she didn't even blink. "Of course, Sire." She glanced at the surrounding courtiers who, instead of enjoying the food and music, were more or less obviously hanging on to her every word. "But we shouldn't be spoiling the ambassador's reception with discussing such mundane affairs as money."

Her reply could mean anything, but Treville didn't dare question her further for fear of what else the King might say if the conversation went on any longer.

"When you are ready to leave, the Captain and Cardinal will accompany you to Troyes." The King looked far too satisfied with himself. "I believe, Captain, you know just the men to keep the Duchesse safe?"

Treville bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty." If this was the King's way of telling him to take the musketeers who had investigated the smugglers it was unnecessary. If one absolutely had to dare the lion in its den, there was no one he would rather have watching his back than Porthos and his three companions. 

The King dismissed Troyes after that, and the Duchesse wasted no time in retreating. Treville could see her heading for the buffet, skilfully side-stepping any noblemen who attempted to stop her for a chat.

Treville did not envy her.

Still unable to talk as freely as he would have liked, Richelieu stepped into the King's line of view. "Your Majesty, may we move to a more private location to discuss the logistics of this undertaking?"

To Treville's relief, His Majesty agreed.

No sooner had they left the ballroom behind them that the King hissed at them. "I will hear no opposition from you."

Treville tried it anyway. "Your Majesty—"

"You told me yourselves that Troyes is your only suspect. I will not leave a conspirator unobserved while my Queen is traveling the countryside exposing herself and our heir to innumerate dangers!"

Treville shot an exasperate look at Richelieu, but the Cardinal disappointed him.

"There is no sense in protesting now. The entire court heard Your Majesty's plans. A sudden withdrawal is only going to look suspicious. However," Richelieu lifted his hands in a conciliatory gesture, "there are less obvious ways to send soldiers into the Duchesse's home. Your proposal put the Duchesse under a great deal of pressure. If she is hiding something she might act rashly."

The King remained unmoved. "Good. It's what she deserves."

Treville cleared his throat. "Your Majesty also put a great deal of pressure on your musketeers. One night isn't much time to prepare them for what we might find in Troyes."

" _Try_ them, Treville. Your musketeers are supposed to be my elite."

Treville had to choke back an indignant retort; after all, the man before him was still his King. But his musketeers, no matter their skill as soldiers, were but men; and men had a better chance of making use of their skills – and subsequently surviving their mission – if they knew what they were walking into. A single night didn't give them much time to even _guess_ what awaited them at the Duchesse's summer residence.

The only good news was that it didn't leave Troyes a chance to prepare anything either. 

There was one last approach remaining to make the King see sense. "We will be ready to move by dawn, but are you certain you wish to part with the Cardinal as well?" He tried not to look at Richelieu as he spoke, but it was impossible to miss him turning his head. A pink tint appeared on the Cardinal's cheeks, making him look, of all things, embarrassed.

"Yes! Yes, I need both of you there!" the King hissed. "You're my closest advisors; the only of my courtiers I can trust. And yet you have been fighting again tonight in front of your King's eyes." He shot them both a look that he no doubt hoped was scathing, but if he expected Treville to feel sorry about protesting the Cardinal's universal suspicions against the Huguenots he was going to be disappointed.

"For the sake of the safety of my Queen and my heir," the King continued, his voice swelling as he continued, "you will go to Troyes' little residence and you will find whoever is behind this plot and you _will_ get along. That is a royal order!"

Having said his final word, King Louis rushed back to his ball, leaving his dear advisors standing in the empty hall. 

In the brief silence that followed, Treville and Richelieu shared a look of fresh apprehension.

"Are we truly going to do this?"

Richelieu looked away. "You heard His Majesty."

It appeared that even those who claimed to serve only the crown had to reckon with the head on which it rested.

"And I heard you. 'No sense in protesting.' You couldn't convince him to give us another day?" Treville swallowed. "You could have tried threatening to leave us again."

Richelieu had already retreated behind another one of his courtly masks. 

"Every day we gain by stalling leaves the Duchesse more time to send word to her allies in Troyes."

"So we go to Troyes and then what? We hope that we stumble upon the smuggled arms?"

"I need to order my men to make preparations for the journey," Richelieu said, pretending to be occupied with brushing imaginary dust off his robes. "So should you."

Treville sighed and followed Richelieu back to the ballroom.

It appeared that they were going to Troyes. 

Together.


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Treville did upon re-entering the ballroom was to grab one of the musketeers on guard and order him to tell Athos what needed to be done. They had the rest of the night to learn what they could about the Duchesse; and Treville intended to put that time to good use.

Once he had taken the musketeer's place, standing guard at the edge of the ballroom, he spotted Richelieu speaking to Captain Cahusac near the entrance, doubtlessly giving similar orders.

Treville couldn't help but think that the Cardinal carried himself as he always had, standing straight and gesturing with his quick, slender hands as he talked. There was no sign of illness or exhaustion to incite Treville's worry, and yet, Perales' comment about how his trip appeared to have done Richelieu no good still lurked at the back of his mind. 

It was inconsiderate of the King to ask Richelieu to leave again so soon after his journey to Paris without giving him at least a day to rest. They had much planning to do, and Treville doubted Richelieu was wise enough to catch any sleep before they had to set out. The Cardinal was the shrewdest man in Paris, planning sieges and counter-coups in meticulous detail before breakfast, but when it came to his own body he tended to act thoughtlessly.

Treville sighed, trying to remind himself that none of that was his business anymore. Two months ago he had made a choice. For his King and Queen. For the musketeers. But some old habits were just too damned hard to break.

He watched Richelieu sent Cahusac on his way. A thin smile appeared on the Cardinal's face as he turned around, and it took Treville far too long to realise that it was meant for him. Richelieu had caught him staring. Like a fool, Treville averted his gaze, but Richelieu was already heading towards him. His red robes billowed around his legs and his eyes flashed as he made his way through the assembled crowd of noblemen.

Perales was wrong. Richelieu didn't look weak. Richelieu had never looked better.

"We need to speak about Her Grace," Richelieu said quietly as he came to a halt next to Treville; his eyes followed the Captain's gaze across the room full of nobles.

"Now?" No one appeared to pay them any special attention. Troyes had become the most interesting woman in the room since the King had made his demands of her in front of the entire court, and Treville guessed that Perales had to be either quietly thanking her for distracting the courtiers from his earlier outburst, or cursing her for upstaging the ball's guest of honour.

"After the reception." Richelieu said. His tone implied that he was disappointed that Treville even had to ask. "I would not advise alarming the Duchesse by running from the hall like headless chickens."

"And your men could use a couple more hours to compile a handy dossier on Troyes and her family for you?" No need to pretend he hadn't been watching Richelieu speak to his Captain.

Richelieu curled his lips. "I assume your musketeers are doing the same?"

"Of course," Treville said, but even as he spoke he was taken by how absurdly familiar their conversation fest. 

They were hatching plans together, talking to each other as they had before the trouble with the Queen had started, and he cursed himself for the way his heart fluttered at that realisation Richelieu was standing so close that his hand was almost brushing against Treville's buff leather coat. It would be so easy to reach out and touch it.

"Tell me we're not taking the King into the home of a suspected rebel," Treville said. 

"We're not. By the time the King arrives in Troyes the Duchesse must no longer be a suspect."

"What do you propose we do?"

"The best way to tell if she is involved or not is to find out where these other two shipments went. Have your men continue their investigations of that inn; track down whoever paid for those arms." Richelieu's lips twisted into a cruel smile. "And, this time, tell the musketeers not to stop until they have results."

Treville's face darkened. 

"My musketeers will do what they have to."

"Fortunately, they can rely on the aid and experience of my Red Guards, since I, too, am going to Troyes."

Richelieu's insistence made Treville wonder whether the Cardinal had misinterpreted the apprehension he had voiced about the King's plan as badly as His Majesty had.

"I do not mind working with you to find whoever received these arms, but if you are right about the Duchesse, going to Troyes will be dangerous," Treville said. Taking the King into the home of a suspected rebel was a terrible idea, but so was taking the First Minister. Despite everything Richelieu had done, Treville was not going to deliver him into the hands of a traitor. 

"We have no idea what we are going to find in Troyes."

"Your concern is touching, but this is exactly why I plan on bringing guards." Richelieu's voice was dripping sarcasm, but Treville had noticed the brief hesitation before his reply. Guards were a precaution, but no guarantee of safety.

_The Red Guard hadn't been able to protect Richelieu from being poisoned at de Comtesse de Larroque's trial._

It had been months and Treville could still see him – _hear him_ – choking in that courtroom.

"We don't know anything about the conspirators' motivations," he said. "Did it occur to you that this plot could be directed against _you_? It wouldn't be the first time." 

Everyone, including the King, was aware that Richelieu effectively _was_ the French government, and in the past, rebels hadn't shied from attempting to take out their frustration with the King's policies on his First Minister. Although any attempt on Richelieu's life ultimately was an attack against the crown and was punished as such, it didn't carry the stink of regicide, which made rebellion easier to justify for some. 

"Thank you, I am well aware of the number of people who want me dead," Richelieu snapped, and if the matter weren't so serious Treville would have rolled his eyes.

" _I_ don't want you dead."

"How very thoughtful of you." Richelieu looked away. "If you have no other objections to my presence in Troyes, I will leave you to your duties now. I have to speak with the chancellor."

But before Richelieu could go anywhere, Treville grabbed his sleeve.

"What?" The Cardinal's eyes lit up with anger and Treville almost dropped his hand. Almost.

"Just be careful in Troyes," he said, sounding a lot more argumentative than he had intended. 

Tugging his arm free, Richelieu walked away, leaving Treville thinking that his silky robes felt just as smooth as he remembered.

  


* * *

  


"Makes you wish the Cardinal had come to appreciate the countryside and stayed away."

Porthos' quip earned the musketeer an admonishing look from his Captain. 

"The Cardinal is still the First Minister of France," Treville said. It was the one thing they could all be sure of, and France couldn't afford to have its First Minister undermined, even by a musketeer, and even if the only ones who could possibly overhear them at present were the garrison's grooms who were helping them to stable their horses.

"If His Majesty hadn't called him back for the ambassador's introduction to court tonight, King Philip would have taken his absence as a cause to worry about the state of government in France."

At his side, d'Artagnan snorted. "I don't think he's wrong to worry about the whereabouts of the man who intended to kill his sister."

Treville shot all four of them a warning glance, before leading the way across the garrison courtyard and into the privacy of his office. They all had to pray King Philip would never learn of any part of that affair unless they wanted to find themselves at war with their neighbours – all because of one reckless decision Richelieu had taken five months ago.

It felt longer than that.

They had just returned from the palace after their emergency council with the Cardinal in the deserted council chamber. It had been a small gathering: Treville and the four musketeers who had stopped the third arms shipment, and Richelieu, one of his secretaries, Captain Cahusac, and a lieutenant of the Red Guard.

The Duchesse had retired from the ball early that night. Luckily for her no one expected a Duchesse to set out again so soon after her arrival in Paris without any sleep. But as the King had refused to end the festivities until he was satisfied that his foreign guests were sufficiently stuffed, tired and convinced of their host's wealth and glory, Treville and Richelieu, bound by their positions as the King's most loyal advisors and protectors, had been stuck in the ballroom until the early morning hours. 

Sneaking away from the festivities for less than an hour to apprise Richelieu of the case of the smuggled arms had been one thing, but drawing up a plan of battle for their journey to Troyes required considerably more time and preparation. 

While Treville had been stuck in the ballroom, confirming his assumptions about the dancing skills of Perales' secretary, the musketeers and the Cardinal's men had been busy. They had spent the night reviewing all they could find out about the Duchesse, her family, and the Huguenot presence in Troyes. But nothing of what they had learned shed any new light on why or how the Duchesse might have come to be involved in a conspiracy.

The rest of the morning had been spent labouring over maps of Troyes and planning a safe route for their journey – accompanied by the usual bickering between Red Guards and musketeers. 

Not one part of their council had gone as Treville had hoped. Richelieu had remained adamant about travelling in his own carriage – and presumably in the same damn robes. His new captain was going to have to prove his worth if they were ambushed. But if he failed to protect the Cardinal on their way to Troyes, even that would be Treville's fault. He had recommended Cahusac to him…

Treville could feel a headache begin to stir behind his temples. He had no idea what they were going to do once they reached Troyes. He hoped – even if it meant that the Cardinal was keeping his thoughts to himself, again – that Richelieu hadn't agreed to the King's scheme without having a plan of his own. Because the alternative could be catastrophic for all of them: Richelieu was a brilliant strategist. He could solve any problem given enough time. However, when asked to improvise the Cardinal tended to panic. His first instinct often wasn't his best, as he had proved most recently when he had sent assassins after the _Queen of France_. 

"I can't believe we have to work with him as though nothing happened!" 

Treville flinched at Aramis' outburst.

"Inside," he hissed.

He unlocked the door to his office and slammed it shut again behind him the moment they had all passed through. 

"You heard Her Majesty!" He stomped over to his desk without daring to look at his men. He was angrier with himself than he was with them. With the Cardinal's return it was only natural that the assassination attempt was back on the musketeers' minds. Richelieu's actions had not only nearly cost the Queen's life, but the lives of his men as well – and yet, somehow, Treville had spent a good deal of the evening thinking about how lovely Richelieu looked in his red robes. 

He took a deep breath. "She has forgiven him."

"The Queen is with child now. He might—"

"The promise of an heir brings stability to the kingdom, which is what the Cardinal wants. Her Majesty could see that when she forgave him."

"Then why isn't she here?" Aramis' frustration was already giving way to pleading. "She doesn't feel safe around him!"

"She didn't know he was coming back today."

"It wasn't hard to guess. The King ordered him to come back for the reception."

Treville frowned. He couldn't deny that a few hours ago he himself had thought that the Queen had been wise to spare herself the sight of Richelieu's triumphant return to court. Yet, although the timing of her leaving was unarguably suspicious, Treville was not going to admit any of that to Aramis. Encouraging the musketeers' suspicions against the man they were supposed to be working with at Troyes would only lead to distractions they couldn't afford while there were rebels at large.

"Let it rest, Aramis," he said. "The Queen's support among her Catholic subjects can only grow from her pilgrimage. She will return strengthened, regardless of whether or not the Saints listen."

"But she is the most vulnerable until her child is born!"

"Which is why we need to focus on finding whoever received those arms."

"The Captain's right, Aramis."

Treville nodded at Porthos, grateful for his support. As usual, the musketeer proved a voice of reason among his friends. Perhaps Treville wasn't entirely mad to defend Richelieu.

"There are men who don't want to see that child born," Porthos continued, "but the Cardinal isn't one of them."

"Unlike Gaston," d'Artagnan added.

"You trust Richelieu?" Aramis glared at them both. "After all he's done?"

"Wouldn't believe him if he told me water's wet," Porthos said and Treville tried not to wince, "but what's he going to gain from losing the heir to the throne?" 

Treville's eyebrows shot up. That had to be the highest show of trust for the Cardinal ever to come out of the mouth of a musketeer.

"He needs the King's position to be as strong as possible," Athos agreed. "Otherwise he risks losing his own power. I can't imagine Gaston would let him keep his position of First Minister should he ascend to the throne."

D'Artagnan scoffed. "I can't imagine Gaston would let him keep his _head_."

"That's enough for now!" The musketeers fell silent at Treville's bark. All eyes settled on the Captain. "Like it or not, the Cardinal is our _ally_ , and the four of you should be preparing yourselves for our journey tomorrow. It is part of your duty to see that he and the Duchesse arrive at the summer residence safely."

"That doesn't mean we can't keep a close eye on him," Aramis said.

Treville couldn't believe his ears.

"You want to spy _on the Cardinal_?" A musketeer spying on the spymaster, because of an affair that would drive the entire kingdom to ruin if any more attention were drawn to it. 

"I—"

"No!" Treville didn't try to hide his outrage. His voice increased in volume of its own volition. "Stay away from the Cardinal! And don't you dare bother Her Majesty with any of this when she gets back." The stress of that affair being dredged up again was the last thing she needed.

Aramis fell silent, but the hat in his hands trembled.

Treville, too, was shaking, but with dread more than anger. The same dread had held him captive for the three months during which he had expected every day to be ordered to arrest the Cardinal for treason. It was the dread he had felt as Richelieu had pressed himself against him on the night that he told him of what he had done, so terrified of being shot like a dog as his predecessor had been. 

Treville breathed in deeply. He tried to swallow that dread, force it down his throat so that he might have a chance to speak calmly. 

He needed to tell Aramis to stay behind at the garrison, that he could not accompany them to Troyes. But Treville couldn't justify leaving one of his best men behind while there was a conspiracy brewing in Troyes. He needed all four of them. Not only did he fear that he was going to need all of their considerable skills sooner rather than later, they were also the ones who knew the most about the Spanish arms.

He would simply have to keep a close eye on Aramis around the Cardinal while they were in Troyes.

Exhaustion made Treville sit down behind his desk. He sent them all out, telling them to get as much rest as they could until they had to leave. Aramis and d'Artagnan obeyed immediately, but, before he followed them, Porthos shared a long look with Athos that didn't bode well for Treville. 

He glowered when Athos stayed behind. 

"When I give an order to all of you, I _mean_ all of you."

The musketeer met his Captain's glare stoically. "Are you fine with this?" he asked. "Taking the Cardinal to Troyes?"

Treville sighed. It was getting too late for another discussion – or too early. In a few hours they would be leaving for Troyes.

"It does give us the best chance of finding those arms and determining who's behind the shipments."

It wasn't easy for him to admit it, but the King's plan wasn't entirely without sense. They could arrest Troyes now, even force a search of her properties based on nothing but the statement of a smuggler and the King's will, but although it'd mean one noisome noble less plotting in the French countryside, simply locking her up was not going lead them any closer to finding the remaining arms shipments.

Interrogation, torture even, was a much more effective tool when you already knew what your suspect was going to say before you started. They weren't likely to gain anything from arresting her before they had more information – particularly if it turned out that she was innocent.

Going to Troyes was almost certain to lead to better results, and going under the pretext of arranging a hunt wasn't as likely to send her potential co-conspirators running as simply showing up and asking questions would be.

It wasn't a terrible plan, but…

"But it's reckless," he continued. "If the Duchesse, or someone in her vicinity is preparing to rise up against the King, they won't hesitate to strike at the Cardinal."

"If she does, at least we will know we were right about her." Athos smiled darkly, but Treville didn't share his humour. He had no intention to use Richelieu as bait.

"But that's not what I meant," Athos continued. "You know we'll have your back if the Cardinal makes any trouble for you in Troyes?"

Treville made a face. If only Athos knew what he was saying… but even without the need to keep a professional distance between the men and his private life, Treville would never be able to share what had been between him and Richelieu with Athos – or anyone else.

"There won't be any trouble. He's our ally. We must work with him as we have before."

Athos cocked an eyebrow. "So you haven't been spending an inordinate amount of time locked in your office for the last two months and beating up our recruits because you're frustrated over the way the affair with Her Majesty resolved?"

Treville sucked in his breath. 

"No."

Athos kept looking at him with that perpetually tormented look of his. "I know that even now that he is back, you can't very well take out your frustrations on His Eminence, but I feel it is my duty to tell you that the recruits tend to get more work done around the garrison if they can stand up."

Treville frowned. "Sounds to me like they need the hard practice."

Athos rolled his eyes and it was only because Treville was truly feeling guilty that he got away with it.

It was true that since he no longer spent his evenings at the Palais Cardinal, he had taken to spend more of his spare time in his office, writing letters or reorganising his personal belongings; he had even been reading a lot – anything from fencing manuals to accounts of sieges. It was also true that _perhaps_ he had been going too hard on some of the new recruits after he had taken over fencing practice for the past few weeks. But he wasn't doing any of it because he was angry at Richelieu. Not entirely.

"Do not worry about the Cardinal," Athos continued. "Concentrate on the Duchesse. We can deal with His Eminence."

"That is exactly what I'm worried about."

Athos' expression softened. "We can also deal with Aramis – although the strain is certainly going to shorten my life by a few years."

Athos smiled that peculiar, dark half-smile of his, and despite himself, Treville smiled back.

Once Athos was out of the door, Treville intended to follow his own advice. He had been a soldier for too long not to know that he needed to get his sleep whenever he could, particularly before a long assignment, but as he lay down on his little cot he found his thoughts occupied by the events of the day. When he had got up in the morning, his most immediate worry had been preparing for the ambassador's reception. But now Richelieu was back and they were headed for Troyes on the trail of a Spanish conspiracy, together.

Treville shifted on his mattress, trying to find a more comfortable position that would allow him to just close his eyes and fall sleep, but to no avail. He had once become used to sleeping on the ground on campaign, with only his rolled-up coat for a pillow, but even those memories didn't compare to the discomfort he felt lying in his cot tonight. When had his mattress become so hard? It certainly wasn't anything like the featherbed in the Palais Cardinal…

Treville sighed. There was no feather mattress here and no silken sheets, and yet he still expected to feel Richelieu's hands on his skin.

He flexed the fingers on the hand Richelieu had accidentally touched. He remembered the jolt that had shot through him.

Even shutting his eyes, he couldn't stop seeing Richelieu looking back at him with that sardonic smile gracing his lips – Lord! How Treville longed to feel those lips on his mouth again. The coarse linen under his hands was a poor substitute for silken robes and soft skin. Richelieu had looked so lovely during their council. Even after an entire night wasted at the ambassador's ball he hadn't lost any of his commanding presence, like a true prince of the church. He had looked so poised in his pristine red robes that so demanded to be dishevelled.

Treville snapped his eyes open and got up. It was too stuffy inside to breathe. Opening one of the windows to let in the cool night air, he stood looking out into the courtyard for a long while, trying not to think of anything. 

A squad of musketeers was just returning from their patrol, still innocent of the turmoil the Duchesse and the King had caused at court, and Treville heard the sound of their laughter drift up to the window.

He couldn't begrudge his men their harsh words earlier. It had to be disconcerting to know that the most powerful man in France was their enemy – particularly when all they had to protect them from his power was their Captain.

If Treville were to ever choose Richelieu over them, then what would happen to them? Who else could they trust to look out for them? 

After Savoy, Treville had tried to make Richelieu promise he would never involve the musketeers in his schemes again without his consent. And yet, Labarge had happened. And Gallagher. And Milady de Winter. All in such quick succession.

Evidently, Treville had failed to make Richelieu understand that he couldn't live his life being torn in two.

The last time he had failed to make a decision in the musketeers' favour, Athos, d'Artagnan and his lover, an innocent woman, had almost paid for it with their life. The affair of the Queen's assassination had resolved itself favourably even without Treville's help, but the musketeers might not be so lucky next time. The next time Richelieu ignored their Captain's pleas could end in another Savoy.

Treville watched the patrol disappear from view and sighed.

Leaving the Cardinal had been the right decision. Treville owed this men everything he was. Every shred of respect these young men had for him was part of the reason he was the man he was now, here, in this moment: Captain of the King's Musketeers – a position coveted even by the King's generals. He was admired, respected… and utterly alone.

Walking back to his cot, he suddenly took note of how narrow it was. It had seemed sufficient when he had it installed years ago. Belgard had just been exiled, de Foix had left for Sweden and Richelieu and he had been going through the first of many temporary separations. It had been a time in Treville's life when he had believed it safer not to share his bed with anyone.

But tonight Treville was aware of all the complaints Richelieu had ever voiced about the cot. It was too hard, too small, too hot, too cold, too noisy. The fact that it had been easier for Treville to stay at the Palais Cardinal without raising suspicions than it had for Richelieu to stay at the garrison had been only part of the reason they'd preferred the Cardinal's bed. Richelieu had once told him that he'd rather fuck Treville in the stables than on his cot. He had not been amused when Treville had proposed a literal roll in the hay.

Treville sighed. He couldn't be thinking about that – not when things could never be like that again. He had to remember that this time he had left Richelieu for a good reason. He had lied to his boys for three months, and for what? To protect the one man who made the King look strong? To protect the best interests of France? Or had he done it because he had thought himself in love with a man who was never going to stop going over his head as he gambled with everything Treville held dear?

Would a man who loved him keep withholding vital information from him, again and again? Richelieu did what he did for France, but God forbid Treville, the Captain of the Musketeers, could be trusted to judge the national importance of the Cardinal's plans fairly. Had he not, after twenty years of acquaintance, made enough blood sacrifices in support of Richelieu's schemes to prove that he _understood_? 

As Treville lay down again, he could hear the patrol outside talking down there in the courtyard. They were probably gathered around the table beneath the walkway, joking, drinking, enjoying each other's company.

Treville had done nothing to protect his musketeers during the three months that they had investigated Milady de Winter, but they still trusted him enough to follow him into the home of a suspected rebel. As long as his loyalties were divided, how could Treville trust himself to put the needs of his men first? 

They risked their lives every day – for the King, for their city, for _him_.

Honour, glory – these were all convenient lies to feed the courtiers when they asked him why, after all these years, he had never sought to be anything but a soldier. Surely, His Majesty would have given him any position he asked for after decades of loyal service? But the truth was that he stayed for his men. They fought for him, fought _with_ him, and Treville was not going to leave them behind. Even if France were not standing at the precipice of war with Spain he would not abandon his musketeers for anything in the world. He had a family waiting for him in Gascony: his mother, and his siblings and his niece and nephew, but Gascony had never been his home. Not like the garrison. Not like the musketeers.

Richelieu had proven tonight that he remained the most charming, most capable bastard at the King's court. But how could Treville claim to care for his men and still want him?

Treville rolled onto his side in his narrow cot and pulled his definitely-not-silken blanket over his head before he expelled a deep sigh. 

If the musketeers couldn't trust him to choose their battles wisely, to protect them from those would wilfully waste their lives, then he wasn't fit to be their Captain anymore.

  


* * *

  


By the time they reached the inn, the pink of hues of sunset had faded to a faint smear across a darkening horizon. Captain Cahusac had sent a rider ahead to tell the innkeeper to prepare for a large group of highborn guests and their guards and servants, but despite the warning, the poor man was wholly unprepared for what came over him.

Upon arriving in the inn's courtyard it quickly became apparent that most of the soldiers were going to have to make their beds in the stables if they set store by having any roof over their heads at all. As for dinner, the men were better off sticking to their own provisions than hoping that the cook would stretch his stocks to accommodate them all.

Serving the Duchesse, Cardinal and Captain as befit their rank took priority over seeing that any other guests were fed that night. Despite the troubles he had to take over his illustrious guests, the innkeeper had actually looked disappointed rather than relieved when the Cardinal insisted on being served food from his own larder by his own cook. Richelieu had explained his cook's presence to the Duchesse with a lie about his sensitive stomach even though Treville was sure the entire court knew by now that he took his own cook and food with him everywhere he travelled for fear of poisoning.

Even this disappointment hadn't stopped the innkeeper from clearing out the inn's entire public room to serve his exalted guests in private. He refused to simply have their food and drink sent to their rooms since that would have meant making them wait. Some Sieur de something or other had to be moved first so that the Duchesse could claim the best rooms, and the innkeeper had offered his own living quarters to the Cardinal without having to be asked.

Where the man's family would be sleeping tonight was a mystery that Treville was in no mood to investigate. He would have been happy to bed down in a servant's chamber if it had meant he could have some rest without suffering through another social engagement first, but that didn't sound like something the Captain of the King's Musketeers should be thinking. 

Treville had never been good at playing the role required of him at courtly gatherings even before he had been made Captain. It struck him as ridiculous to have an entire room cleared just so that the three of them could crowd around one corner of a table in an otherwise empty hall, but then he had always spent more time watching over the King's table than sitting at it, and as such he guessed he would have been uncomfortable whether they were three or thirty.

These matters had been much less complicated in King Henri's time. The old King would have forbidden the innkeeper from turning out his other guests. He had enjoyed travelling from inn to inn to grant his subjects a glimpse of their sublime sovereign – and an earful of all the bawdy songs he knew.

None of his subjects could have found his accessible nature more agreeable than his assassin. It must have made his bloody task so much easier.

In order not to feel so quite out of place at the dinner table, Treville had tried to invite Cahusac and some of the musketeers to join them, but most of the musketeers had refused on the grounds of feeling intimidated by the prospect of sharing such a small a table with a Duchesse and a Cardinal-Duc. Since Athos feared speculation on his noble birth and Aramis was forbidden from going near the Cardinal they were left with Cahusac, d'Artagnan and Porthos who were fortunately proving to be agreeable dinner companions. 

D'Artagnan quickly struck up a conversation about horses with Cahusac, and Porthos answered the Duchesse's questions about his background without shame, backed by Treville's elaborations on the musketeer's military achievements. It was common knowledge that the Captain of the Musketeers accepted recruits from all spheres of society, but most of the nobility appeared to forget about this distasteful practice until they were face to face with one of those very soldiers.

Treville was used to seeing noblemen react with anything from derision to horror to learning about a such a musketeer's background, but Troyes knew how to guard her thoughts well. Her face remained impassive as Porthos told her about growing up in the Court of Miracles, even as, at her side, the eyes of one of her ladies grew wider and wider with wonder at every word out of Porthos' mouth.

After the Duchesse had retired from the ambassador's ball, Treville had immediately sent some of his men to watch her, and, as he had found out during their council, the Cardinal had done the same. Unfortunately, the soldiers had had nothing unusual to report after their vigil. They had watched her quarters the entire night, taking note of who came and left as she prepared for her journey home, but as none of them had been able to actually enter the Duchesse's quarters, they couldn't tell exactly what those preparations entailed.

"Captain." 

Treville looked up when he heard the Duchesse speak his name. They had just finished the meat course, and so far his part in their dinner conversation, apart from introducing his musketeers and occasionally supporting Porthos, had mainly consisted of grunting in agreement or disdain to arguments he was only half paying attention to. Predictably, he hadn't caught much sleep this morning as his thoughts had been fully occupied with Richelieu and Troyes. After an entire day on horseback, on constant lookout for potential threats, he distinctly felt his concentration begin to slip.

Even now it took him a moment to focus on what the Duchesse was saying.

"I believe you knew my brother André?"

"We served together during King Henri's Italian campaign." Treville leaned back in his seat as the memories took him. It had been a gruesome campaign, fought on hard, mountainous terrain. "I only saw him once or twice after that."

Treville could see Richelieu sit up straighter. His brief acquaintance with André de Ferrier, the Duchesse's younger brother, was the one fact Treville had been able to share about the Duchesse's family this morning that Richelieu hadn't already known. Not that it helped them much. André had died years ago – along with his wife Éléonore – crossing over to England. Treville couldn't even remember exactly why they had gone. He had heard something about a trade investment gone sour that had required Ferrier's personal attention.

Whatever the details, they didn't bear any importance to the current investigation. Oh, he had seen the Duchesse and her remaining brother at the King's balls before, but they had never spoken about André. In fact, this was the first proper conversation with Troyes that Treville could recall.

"He talked about you sometimes," she said.

"Did he?" In need of a moment to collect his thoughts Treville picked up his cup. He hadn't thought about André in a long, long while. He had lost so many comrades over the years. Sometimes, seeing a familiar-looking face or hearing a particular phrase would bring their memory back sharply to the forefront of his mind. But most of the time the memories slumbered – at least during the daytime.

"We continued to write to each other for a while after he left the army." André had been wounded, shot through the leg – right, left? Treville couldn't remember. The surgeons cut it off.  
One leg more or less wouldn't have helped him when his ship sank in the middle of the Channel during a storm.

"He went into trading if I remember correctly," Treville said after a pause.

"He did," the Duchesse said, "and it did him no good." The friendly interest on her face gave way to a dark frown and Treville left her to her memories. He doubted that Ferrier's past trading connections were crucial to their case. They had evidently brought him and his family no luck, and the accident had been – what? – fifteen years ago?

Troyes had already inherited the duché from her father by then. It was unusual for a daughter to inherit before her younger brothers, but not entirely unheard of. 

As she had been the head of the family at the time, André's death had left Troyes in charge of bringing up his only surviving son – undoubtedly the nephew she had mentioned at the ball, since none of Andrés siblings had any living children of their own. 

Treville had never met the boy, and he wondered how old he must be now. Somehow, it hadn't come up at the council meeting this morning. The musketeers hadn't been able to unearth much information about him. All they knew was that the young man hadn't followed his father into the King's service, and that he drew his income from having inherited the lands and title of Sieur de Saint-Rémy from his mother's family. Beyond that he was a mystery as he didn't get out of Troyes much.

Whatever ventures he got up to, they couldn't be something the family was proud of, and yet, the closest thing to a shameful secret they had found was that Saint-Rémy had studied common law at a university for some time. While there were many men in the King's service who owed their nobility to their skills as magistrates, studying the law was a far too bourgeois an occupation to incite anything but mild embarrassment in a family that had won its nobility by the sword. 

However, aside from class pride, a bourgeois education was hardly a reason to hide away one's only heir. 

Lost in his ruminations, Treville felt his gaze drawn to Richelieu. The Cardinal was seated at the opposite side of the table and politely pretending to be more interested in his food than Treville's halting conversation with the Duchesse. It was a hard act to sell, since the Cardinal's disinterest in fine food meant he had only a thin broth and a piece of bread to pick at. His pretence was further ruined by the way he kept squinting his eyes. This, along with how pale he looked, told Treville that he had most likely worked through the entire morning instead of catching some sleep and was now fighting one of his monstrous headaches after a hot day spent riding in a stuffy carriage. 

The wine and the ascetic diet couldn't be helping. Soon, Richelieu would retreat into his bedroom, darken all the windows and possibly even crawl underneath his covers, until he was gently coaxed out from his hiding spot to take a soothing herbal infusion by – who?

With a start Treville realised that he hadn't seen Richelieu with a mistress in almost a year.

There was no one to take care of him here. No one to fill his need for comfort that could get so overwhelming when his migraines took him. He used to be so grateful for the touch of a cool hand on his forehead, wet lips on his temples, a shoulder to lean his aching head on. Any form of relief had been welcome, no matter how animalistic.

It was none of Treville's business anymore. 

And yet, as Captain of the King's foremost guard regiment Treville was still allowed to hate that the First Minister, as his ally, was putting himself through all of this.

He hated that Richelieu had to insist on his own cook to dare to eat anything.

He hated that, in spite of the threat, he travelled so openly, using his own carriage, all to keep up the image of the fearless, powerful Cardinal. 

The King should never have made him go on this journey and Richelieu should never have agreed to go – not before they had devised a strategy that went beyond searching the Duchesse's estates as brazenly as possible – or at least until their men had unearthed more information about this possible conspiracy.

At least Richelieu had abandoned his fancy robes in favour of the red-and-black soutane more suitable to the road.

It was slightly easier to run in. 

Treville expelled a long breath. On the one hand, he appreciated Richelieu's change of attire, but on the other hand… Although there was no seductive rustling of silk he had always loved the way the red-and-black soutane hugged Richelieu's waist. And it was much easier to take off than the red silk robes...

"Captain." 

Treville swallowed dryly as Richelieu caught and held his gaze.

"You never mentioned the Duchesse's brother."

"Not to you," Treville said, flustered. A moment later he regretted having spoken at all. He'd meant to prevent the Duchesse from taking offense at the insinuation that Treville had never thought of her brother after they had parted ways, but the way Richelieu's face darkened told Treville that he'd merely given offense somewhere else.

This was exactly why he wasn't a diplomat.

  


* * *

  


Richelieu leant back into the armchair in his office and closed his eyes.

_'You're as wretched now as I was, Little Bishop.'_

His heart beat faster when he heard that familiar voice.

_'We told you he was more trouble than he was worth.'_

Richelieu kept his eyes shut, but there was no escaping the leering face that appeared in front of him, skinless, red, weeping from every pore of his burned flesh.

_'What does it feel like?'_ the spectre of Concini asked, _'to know that the Captain finally sees you for what you truly are?'_

"Go away."

If the spectre had lips, it might have smiled. _'The great Cardinal, the great orator who charmed his way into the palace with a mere speech. Is this all you have to say to me?'_

Richelieu looked away, but no matter where he turned his face the spectre reappeared before him just as it always did. 

"I have _nothing_ to say to you." 

He jumped when Concini grabbed his sleeve. _'What has betraying me earned you, in the end? You are all alone, Little Bishop.'_

Richelieu stood up, breaking free of the corpse's grasp.

_'What have you earned?'_ The corpse glowered at him out of eyeless sockets. _'What have you won?'_

Richelieu swallowed. "France," he hissed. "I have France."

France was the one thing Concini, despite his efforts, had never been able to make his own.

Richelieu turned away from the corpse and walked over to the windows. A familiar scene greeted him as he looked outside. The mob was out there, motionless, still. Although the office was too high up for Richelieu to see their faces he _knew_ their faces were frozen in violent snarls and shouts of hatred. They always were.

_'Ah, but you have it only by a thread.'_ The corpse stretched out his arm towards the windows, pointing. It stood so close that its hand brushed Richelieu's cheek, making the Cardinal jump at its wet touch. Concini was nothing but a large, weeping wound.

_'Look closely.'_

Richelieu turned to face the corpse instead. Its fetid breath made him retch, but it was still a more attractive sight than what waited for him outside.

_'You're still playing your old games, Little Bishop. Running away and making the King miss you.'_ The corpse grinned its death's-head grin. _'Things are looking dark, my friend. The King is fickle and the Queen is powerful while she is with child. The Boy-King will do to you what he did to me. All it takes is for someone to put the idea in his head.'_

Richelieu tasted blood as he bit his lips.

"I know," he breathed. "I _know!_ "

_'France doesn't love you. The people despise you.'_

"I don't care!"

He turned back to the windows, but they were gone.

He was outside and the mob was in front of him, surrounding him.

Richelieu gasped. 

Even though they still stood frozen, the sight stole his breath.

Still the people were faceless – a mask of skin stretching over their skulls where eyes should have been. But their fists were raised, holding ropes and knives, and their mouths were hanging open in voiceless shouts, looking like red wounds in their white half-faces.

_'Not even the kindest, noblest, and most forgiving man in all of France will have you now.'_

"You know nothing!"

Richelieu whirled around to face the skinless corpse, but it wasn't there any longer.

There was only the mob.

_'You've wasted so many years on him, thinking he might love you one day. Even I had more than you. I had a wife. I had Marie.'_ " The corpse laughed. "France won't hold you at night. France won't protect you from the headaches and the nightmares."

"You're dead!" Richelieu roared. "You know nothing!"

He advanced on the mob as though he meant to shove them aside to find the spectre that mocked him, but he stopped short of touching them.

It seemed to him, that without moving, the people had drawn closer together.

He heard Concini laugh again, and the mob moved.

Richelieu awoke in darkness, breathing shallowly, as he had known he would – as he done almost every night for the past months. The only difference was that this time he wasn't lying in his bedchamber at the manor in Richelieu or his Palais Cardinal, but in a far-too-soft featherbed at an inn halfway between Paris and Troyes.

He noted with disappointment that, however long he had been asleep, rest had not banished the headache that had been stabbing his eyes from inside his skull all day.

Gritting his teeth, Richelieu twisted onto his side, and buried his face in his soft pillow, but he knew he would not be going back to sleep. He had enough of the thing that awaited him behind the veil of unconsciousness for one night.

Despite being the seat of such fabled intellect, his mind was utterly predictable.

He imagined he could hear Concini laugh again. The man had always had the most annoying laugh, like a monkey…

He was dead now, and yet he still possessed the power to rob the First Minister of France of his sleep.

Richelieu rubbed his aching temples, hoping in vain it would calm his pounding heart.

_Concini was dead._ He had died never having known of his successor's betrayal. Unfortunately, knowing that he was merely a nightmare did not exorcise his spectre.

Ever since his act of treason against the Queen, Richelieu had been unable to stop thinking about that grotesque corpse whose fate had been hanging over him like Damocles' sword since the day he had seen it dangling upside down from the makeshift gallows. 

Lately, all his nightmares invariably summoned his predecessor's mutilated corpse to mock him: about France, about his favour with the King, about _Treville…_

Richelieu pulled the covers over his head in the hope that absolute darkness would alleviate his pain. 

_Not to you._

Treville's words at dinner still rang loudly in ears. 

_Not to you._

He felt sick. He had spent three months thinking the loneliness and the nightmares would eventually end, and that he would find peace and comfort in Treville's arms again only for the Captain to reject him for good.

Where was his brave Captain now?

Treville didn't want to see him. He would never again touch Richelieu, or hold him, or kiss him.

Treville had left him, and Richelieu had spent the last few weeks trying to live with that fact.

But it had taken only one look at the proud captain on the night of the reception to prove that trying to forget was a hopeless endeavour. Treville had looked so martial in his ornate cuirass. His greying beard and the old scar under his eye had only served to make him look more distinguished. A true warrior. 

As Richelieu had caught sight of him there, standing beneath the light of the chandeliers, surrounded by the glittering court, what little peace he had found at his family estate between the mosquitos and the demands of the country clergy had vanished into thin air. 

When Richelieu had put Perales in his place, Treville's eyes had been sparkling with that genuine mirth that unfailingly made Richelieu curse his heart for beating faster every time. For months he had missed that smirk, and now he knew he would continue to miss it. Treville had killed his smile the moment he'd realised that Richelieu had been watching him, and he had done the same to every other smile that had graced his lips since that evening, no matter how briefly.

_Not to you._

Three simple words without much meaning behind him. Of course Treville had never been under any obligation to tell his lover about every brother-in-arms he'd ever lost.

_Not to you._

It was ridiculous that Richelieu should take these words to heart, if not for the fact that they were one statement in a long line of rejections, voiced and unvoiced.

_Not to you._

Richelieu remembered their accidental touch in the study at the palace last night – had it only been last night? – and how Treville had jumped away as if stung. 

This was how it was going to be from now on. What had been so natural a few months ago had become distasteful to the captain.

All day Richelieu had watched Treville direct the escort, barking orders when necessary as he rode up and down the lines of soldiers, blue cloak streaming behind him.

Not once had he stopped to talk to him.

Not once had he climbed into his carriage.

_Not to you._

Treville knew him like no other. He had stood by him through all the havoc he had wrought through the years, supporting him when he stumbled, strengthening him. But now he had finally turned away.

Because of the musketeers.

Richelieu bit into his pillow to stifle his groan. He should have been gloating over the fact that that the musketeers needed his help to uncover this conspiracy, but he took no pleasure from this expedition. 

What joy was left to him now? What relief from the day's troubles?

The musketeers were the root of his plight. What had they not taken from him, these reckless, stupid men? Men like Aramis, who didn't care what they destroyed to satiate their desires… Richelieu knew he hadn't imagined what had passed between the musketeer and the Queen two months ago in the halls of the Louvre. Just thinking of the consequences of that affair coming to light sickened him to such a degree that not even Concini's rotting body could match.

He couldn't even take comfort in the thought that it would also mean the end of that troublesome regiment. Too vivid were memories of the civil war that had preceded King Henri's ascend to the throne. Too many factions were greedily waiting to light that spark of sedition again. What better scapegoat could the likes of Gaston and Bullion hope for than the treacherous Spanish Queen?

And what would King Louis do to the captain who had let this affair happen under his nose? The captain who hadn't been at the convent at the time, but who carried the responsibility for his men regardless. Such disgrace... and Richelieu knew that Treville would bear it. Probably even without uttering a single word of blame against Aramis, this special boy of his who he would be forced to watch being tortured and executed.

Richelieu swallowed a mouthful of bile as the pain inside his head pulsed and roared. 

A man of Treville's talent and skills deserved better followers than the musketeers, yet he was tied to these eternal children by his bleeding heart. 

They were the reason Richelieu was alone in this strange bed, at this strange place on his way into the maws of a dragon. Pain spread behind his eyes, burrowing its claws into his brain and Richelieu felt tears stain his cheeks.

_Not to you._

Just like that their dance had ended. What a balance to take from two decades. From now on, each day he spent in Treville's company would be a reminder of what he had gambled away.

Richelieu sank deeper into the covers not caring about whether or not this behaviour was worthy of a First Minister. His head ached as though it would spring in two and there was no one there to soothe his pain, because his dear Captain had finally learned to shy from his touch and kill his smiles before Richelieu could share them.

_What have you earned?_ the spectre of his predecessor had asked. 

What indeed?

Why had he come here, to this inn, if he truly owned France? Why had he come here if not to continue the games the corpse had accused him of playing?

Had he not given in to the King's reckless scheme because of the need to remind His Majesty and the Queen, the musketeers and the entire court that he was the man who routinely made the impossible happen in order to keep them safe?

Had he not left for Richelieu two months ago to test the King's affections and the Queen's promises to keep his treason secret? 

_And because he couldn't stand to see Treville day after day and know he would never touch him again._

Richelieu rubbed his aching, wet eyes and laughed. His return to Paris should have been triumphant. He had reclaimed his place as the King's favourite advisor and put the Spanish ambassador in his place in front of an entertained court. Yet, he had not been allowed to think himself safe in his position at court for even a single moment. He was on his way to the home of a suspected rebel with almost no plan or preparation, having to prove his worth _again_ by saving this thankless country from its own citizens and risking his life in the process. 

His reward, if he succeeded, was more service, a continuation of this life behind the same old masks that enabled him to be the man the envoys and courtiers wanted to see: The Tyrant, the Cardinal and the Hypocrite.

There was no one left to see the man behind the masks. From now on, that man might as well cease to exist.

Richelieu let the pillow swallow his sobs.

_At least, getting to the bottom of this conspiracy should be less impossible than winning back Treville_ , he thought – right before Cahusac entered to tell him that one of the Duchesse's men had taken a horse and disappeared into the night.


	5. Chapter 5

Treville suppressed a curse when they arrived at the summer residence the next evening only to find the Duchesse's family already waiting for them in the reception hall. 

Troyes' wore the most obliging smile as she introduced them.

"Please, meet my brother, Gaspard de Ferrier, Sieur de Ligny."

Treville had had trouble remembering André's face last night, but as he shook Ligny's hand he was convinced that his old comrade had been just as fair-haired and square-jawed as his brother. They were even built similarly. Judging by his figure, Ligny was an enthusiastic fencer, but his sense of dress was more refined than that of his brother had been when Treville had known him. The fine ornamental stitching on his doublet and trousers would not have been out of place among the crowd at the ambassador's reception.

Ligny bowed deeply before kissing Richelieu's ring.

"We are honoured to serve you, Your Eminence," he said.

"And our nephew," the Duchesse continued as her brother stepped back, "Hugo de Ferrier, Sieur de Saint-Rémy."

So here was the mysterious nephew. Treville didn't know what to think of him now that he was finally able to take a good look the young man. If he had expected to see an obvious physical deformity, something highly visible to explain why his family had been hiding their only heir from the King's vain court, he was disappointed.

Saint-Rémy was a tall young man, of slim build, with sharp, aquiline features and a full head of dark brown curls. He had to be a couple of years older than d'Artagnan, but he hardly looked it.

Suddenly the comments the Duchesse had made about being afraid of losing the only child granted to her family to the corrupting affections of a courtier didn't seem so far-fetched anymore. There was no inconsiderable amount of men and women at court who would be taken in by Saint-Rémy's features.

While Gaspard shared an obvious family resemblance with the Duchesse and their late brother, André's son had to have taken heavily after his mother. Even so, there was something familiar about his appearance that Treville could not quite place.

The young Sieur greeted the Cardinal no less politely, if more stiffly, than his uncle had. This kind of awkwardness was to be expected from a lad who had never travelled far beyond his family's estates, and who had never met anyone nearly as important as a Cardinal-Duc who also happened to be the First Man of the state.

Richelieu, on the contrary, looked perfectly regal as he accepted their hosts' displays of deference. It made for a captivating sight, even without his crimson silk robes.

"Captain Treville!" When Saint-Rémy turned to meet Treville, all hints of stiffness or presumed shyness vanished in an instant. His alert, grey eyes sparkled as he addressed the musketeer. "Father used to tell stories of you!"

Treville didn't know what to say. He had barely been aware of this young man's existence until now, yet André had told him _stories_.

Probably having realised that he was being too familiar, Saint-Rémy blushed.

"They were all good stories," he added as he offered a long-fingered hand to shake. He was a bit on the thin side, certainly no soldier, but his handshake was firm and the expression of pleasure on his face seemed genuine.

"I am sure," Treville replied. It was impossible not to return a smile that infectious after the gloom of the last few days. "I knew your father only for a short while, but it was an honour to serve with him." 

Although Treville hadn't known André de Ferrier well, he had no bad memories of him either, and he hoped the boy wouldn't take his words as an empty phrase. Treville knew what it felt like to have to listen to polite, but ultimately hollow condolences. The old Sieur de Troisville hadn't been able to enjoy his fief and title for long before he had passed away, but all of the town's notables had dutifully appeared at his funeral regardless. Treville remembered the terrible outrage he had felt at the eulogies of those who in their efforts to sound comforting had merely revealed how little they had truly known his father. 

To his relief, Saint-Rémy appeared to believe him that his respect for André was sincere. He nodded solemnly. "Thank you, Captain. If you don't mind, perhaps you can tell me of him later? It would be my honour to show you around the grounds." He stopped himself after catching a stern look from his aunt. "Once you are rested, of course." As his aunt still appeared displeased, he added: "His Eminence should join us, of course."

His Eminence didn't seem too enthused by the offer, but he nodded politely. Directed at the Duchesse he said, "It appears that your fears that we would find an empty, unfurnished residence were unfounded."

The Queen would have envied the Duchesse's regal composure in that moment. She didn't even blush.

"I couldn't bear the thought of my guests arriving to find the hearth cold and the larders empty, and so I sent word ahead. There must have been enough food brought up from the village by now to feed all of your men, and I begged my brother and nephew to be so kind as to bring more servants and some furniture with them from Troyes."

Saint-Rémy smiled his radiant smile again. "We did. I can show you to your rooms personally, if you like. But we thought you might take some refreshments first. They're being prepared as we speak."

Treville did his best to appear pleased with that news. Troyes' explanation corroborated the tale Porthos had told when he had re-joined their strange procession during the final leg of their journey.

The musketeer, sans his uniform cloak, had followed the Duchesse's rider last night as soon as his leaving had been discovered – which had been almost immediately, since some of the musketeers had indeed been forced to make their bed in the stables. According to Porthos, the rider had made straight for the village just beyond the woodland surrounding the residence. There the rider had stopped at the butcher's home and the bakery, before moving on to the residence itself. 

Porthos hadn't actually seen the rider leave the residence again to take a message to the Duchesse's family in Troyes, but it was unsurprising that _someone_ should have found the time and opportunity. A place like this needed its caretakers throughout the entire year, even when the noble family owning it was staying at their primary residence.

It was what else they might have found time to take care of that worried Treville. If the Duchesse truly was involved with the smugglers, she was one step ahead of them. As much as he hated to, Treville had to consider the possibility that even young Saint-Rémy's present show of excitement at meeting an old acquaintance of his late father could be part of a ploy to lull the Captain and the Cardinal into a false sense of security. Although he doubted that Troyes would be so brazen as to assassinate them in her own home, Treville was beginning to envy Richelieu his own cook.

"It will take us a while to prepare for the court's arrival," Ligny said, "but at least you will be able to spend the night in some comfort."

"Our men will assist you in preparing the estate." Richelieu smiled sweetly. "After all, that is why His Majesty sent us here."

"I presume," Treville added, "that our men have your permission to move around the manor and the grounds freely in order to fulfil their duty?"

There was no hint of emotion on the Duchesse's face as she nodded. "Of course." 

"They will have to inspect the keep as well."

"The keep?"

"Yes, your Grace." Richelieu's smile widened. "You have a very pretty summer residence, but it can hardly house the entire court. Fortunately, Troyes and its keep are close by."

Happy to leave the negotiating to the Cardinal, Treville closely watched as the Duchesse processed the news. Regrettably, if there was something at the keep she wished to hide, she was not so bad an actress as to betray any sign of discomfort.

"I can arrange for some of your men to be taken there tomorrow," she said, sounding like nothing but an obliging host.

"Why not tonight?"

"Tonight?" She appeared genuinely surprised. "But it is getting late and you only just arrived. Don't your men deserve a night's rest before you put them to work?"

"Would you keep His Majesty waiting a day longer than necessary?" 

The Duchesse gave the only possible answer to the Cardinal's question: "Of course not!"

"Then we had best not waste any more time." Richelieu smiled again. It was one of his tight-lipped court smiles that Treville always associated with the expression of a cat that had just caught a mouse. 

"If you would prepare a message for your people at the keep?" 

Ligny stepped forward. "I will do it. My sister has barely arrived. You should join her for refreshments, while I pen the order."

Richelieu nodded to Cahusac. "My Captain will accompany you and tell you exactly what we need."

"Of course. We shall attend to this matter immediately."

Ligny walked out of the hall, accompanied by Cahusac and an escort of Red Guards that the Duchesse's family was too courteous to ask about out loud. 

Treville didn't particularly like having to send his musketeers out again immediately, since it diminished the number of guards they had available here to watch over the Cardinal, but for once things were going according to plan. 

He had picked the musketeers who would be going to the keep before they had even left Paris. Aramis was to lead them. Not only would he have the chance to develop some leadership skills of his own, it was also the most effective way to keep him as far away from the Cardinal as possible.

Luckily, none of the other musketeers seemed to have developed such an open an adversity to working with Richelieu as he. They couldn't afford to fight amongst themselves if they wanted to smoke out this conspiracy quickly. 

Ligny had barely disappeared from view when Saint-Rémy invited the rest of them to enter the adjoining parlour where the family's servants were indeed waiting to serve refreshments. Treville accepted a glass of cool wine, trusting that the Duchesse was wise enough not to poison him or the Cardinal in front of their own guards. 

As of yet, there was no need for her to act rashly.

A single look out of the large windows reminded Treville that at the moment the sheer size of the Duchesse's estates was their worst enemy. Although the manor house could not host the entire royal court, the lands attached to it were vast. The residence was lined by wide, open fields and little carp ponds on two sides, and expansive woodland on the other sides. 

Treville could still feel the tension that had settled in his shoulders as their strange caravan had passed through those woods. It would have been the perfect spot for an ambush. An entire army could lose itself in there.

They had reached the residence unmolested, but Treville was well aware that if the Duchesse was hiding anything in those woods, they were unlikely to find it. Even with two full guard regiments at their disposal, they lacked the manpower to search the residence, the keep, and the woods efficiently at the same time, even if they weren't hoping to be covert about it.

And then there was that village. The musketeers had been fairly surprised at its size and apparent wealth as they had passed, since they had struggled to find it on any other but the most recent maps of the region that had been made after the Wars of Religion. Add some fortifications and it might grow into a town to rival Troyes one day.

"Your Grace," Treville said. "The village. I understand it was founded around the same time as this residence was built?"

Troyes nodded. "The village was settled by Huguenot refugees shortly after King Henri took the throne. Troyes had become a bit crowded at the end of the war, and so my late father employed the Huguenots to help build this house. Their settlement has grown steadily ever since, and, along with the nearby farmsteads, it has been supplying us with everything we need for years."

Treville nodded politely. A long, productive relationship between the villagers and the Duchesse's family was just what he had feared. It would have been easy for her to find some loyal soul in the village to hide the smuggled arms for her. At least Porthos was sure that there had been no shipments made to the village from the residence. If the weapons had been here before Troyes' messenger arrived, they hadn't been moved – yet. If they had already been delivered to the village – well, Treville was sure he could come up with some reason to search that place as well and justify it with concerns over the King's imminent arrival.

He took a large drink to wash away the bile he tasted when he realised that the village's majority Huguenot population would make coming up with an excuse easier. The Huguenots were used to being treated with suspicion and prejudice by the crown's forces, since although their protestant King had won the war, he had been crowned as a Catholic, as had his son after him.

What privileges King Henri's lingering affection for his former brothers-in-faith had won the Huguenots, they had lost most of them with the capitulation of La Rochelle and its sister towns in the South. The Huguenots remained free to practice their faith across France, but King Louis had since made sure the world knew he wasn't going to forget their rebellion any time soon.

It was odd to think that if he had been born further north, and if his mother had been more loyal to her faith, these Huguenots would have considered Treville their brother. Instead of leading the King's forces alongside Richelieu, Treville might have taken part in the siege of La Rochelle on the other side of those mighty walls.

If he had, he would most likely be dead now.

The Huguenots, again and again encouraged to hold out by the hope that England would succeed in relieving them one day, had drawn out the siege out for longer than had been humanly possible for most of them. Only a small percentage of the city's population had survived the year-long siege. By the end of it, its defenders had been so feeble that some of them had fallen off the battlements during their watches.

For a year the mighty city had withstood the King's forces, but its people hadn't.

Eventually, King Louis had reclaimed La Rochelle, but lost its inhabitants. 

Treville remembered the day he had ridden into La Rochelle at the side of the King. He had lost good men taking that city and had been wounded himself by enemy fire only a few weeks before the capitulation, but on that day it had been impossible to bear his enemy any ill will. There had been corpses in the streets – men, women, children – all lying where they had fallen. Their neighbours had been too weak with hunger to bury them or even to protect them from what few rats they hadn't been able to catch and eat.

What else starvation had driven them to eat Treville did not like to dwell on. It was for the God of his childhood to judge them.

He had taken a long look at each of those corpses that day and made sure that the musketeers were among the soldiers who helped the emaciated populace to burn them.

Perhaps if they could somehow have gotten hold of the city's leaders… perhaps if the English had stopped inspiring false hope in the defenders… perhaps if Buckingham had been murdered sooner… 

'Perhaps' was a useless word. The King and the Cardinal had starved an entire city to save hundreds more and Treville had supported them willingly. He could have given up his command and retired at any point. He could have left someone else to command his musketeers as they had fought for their lives for an entire rotten year. 

But as distasteful as the results had been, and as much as the memory of the emaciated ghosts manning the city walls haunted him, Treville knew very well that he could never have abandoned his King in his hour of need. Retreat had not been an option for His Majesty's forces. Breaking off the siege would have meant leaving the Duc de Rohan free to declare La Rochelle the capital of a protestant sovereign state within the borders of the Kingdom of France.

Abandoning the siege and allowing the Huguenots to create a state within the state would have destroyed the tenuous unity King Louis and his father had been trying to build since the Wars of Religion had ended. It was this unity that prevented France from slipping back into the dark ages, when every nobleman had been the King of his own, miniscule kingdom, endlessly warring with its neighbours, and easily plucked by Spain.

France simply could not survive another civil war on its soil that lasted half a century.

La Rochelle had paid dearly for having been the first and the strongest seat of Huguenot rebellion in the country. After its fall, the cities that had risen up in its image had been subdued quickly, and in consequence the Huguenots had been made to surrender their dream of a Protestant republic along with their rights to gather without the King's express consent, raise an army, or fortify their towns. They had nominally ceased to be a political power of any importance and, as the Cardinal continued to demolish their fortresses throughout France, they would soon be entirely dependent on the goodwill of their Catholic landsmen.

They had every reason to wish harm upon the French crown, and, accordingly, if Richelieu's first instinct was true and this conspiracy was a Huguenot plot, King Louis would be foolish to hesitate before making another example of them and taking away what few freedoms remained to them. 

Treville took a long drink. It was impossible not to think of his mother and his extended family in Troisville and Oloron and of all they had to lose, all because of some fools here in Troyes. Treville could only hope that Richelieu was wrong about the nature of this conspiracy. But, if his suspicions proved right, Treville would not hesitate to deliver the King's justice.

"Captain? Is something the matter? You look unhappy. Is the wine not to your taste?"

Treville needed a moment to gather his thoughts before he could come up with anything appropriate to say to the Duchesse. 

"Knowing the Captain, he is merely worried about having to impose on your family's hospitality on such short notice."

The Cardinal had stepped in to save him, smiling and charming as ever. He looked as though he was actually enjoying the wine and the company. It was another well-practiced act, another of his masks, but under the circumstances Treville was glad to see it.

By the time Ligny and Cahusac returned and they moved from the parlour into the dining hall, Treville truly envied Richelieu the ease with which he could talk to even a suspected traitor.

He was much more suited to distract the Duchesse from how brazenly they had invaded her home than Treville. 

The Cardinal talked easily. His conversation developed from commiserating with the Duchesse over the difficulties of managing a family estate from Paris to court scandals and from there to the merits of one fine wine Treville had never heard of to another.

Although Treville tried to keep up with the conversation, he found his eyes kept wandering to Richelieu throughout the evening. He couldn't deny that he had missed watching Richelieu work his charm. The Cardinal was as skilled at forging bonds as he was at attacking. Again Treville couldn't help but think of what a great help Richelieu would have been during the past two months as the Captain had struggled with a moody King, his nervous courtiers and, eventually, Ambassador Perales. The Cardinal had shattered Perales' presumptuousness within moments of his return.

"Captain Treville." Looking across the table, Treville found Ligny smiling at him, and he couldn't help but think that the Sieur truly looked a lot like André in that moment.

"You have been quiet tonight. I was hoping you would share stories of your adventures with us. It's not just been my brother who's been telling stories about you. You've had quite the career."

Treville tried not to frown. Too many noblemen, newcomers to court in particular, liked to make assumptions about him based on his 'career'. Although they were far from court here, Treville was not entirely surprised to find that Ligny shared that trait.

"I wouldn't use the term 'adventures' to describe doing my duty," he said.

Next to Ligny, Treville could see Saint-Rémy's cheeks redden. "Uncle—"

"Hugo is merely too polite to ask himself. He was delighted to hear that you were coming here. He told me he was hoping you would be willing to share some details on the battles that he heard so much about from his father." 

Ligny's blue eyes shone with warmth as he smiled at his nephew. Although it appeared that Ligny meant no harm and only intended to do Saint-Rémy a favour, Treville wished that favour didn't involve him. Unlike the Cardinal, he was not an entertainer.

"We are all honoured to have you here, Captain," Ligny's smile widened, "– a man of action."

"So is Captain Cahusac," Treville said. As the son of a nobleman – if an impoverished, Gascon one, Cahusac had been invited to join the table. He was the only other soldier present, since those of the musketeers and Red Guards who hadn't left for the keep had already begun to take stock of the residence.

"I mean no offense to the Captain, but I don't believe he has yet had the opportunity to prove himself in as many battles as you."

Treville smiled cheerlessly. Those same noblemen who kept asking about his 'adventures' had very misguided ideas of what he considered a compliment. Even if the intentions behind the Sieur's words were genuine, Treville was not prepared to take flattery at the expense of a fellow soldier. 

"And he's lucky for it," he said, "since it means he also lacks the scars." 

Captain Cahusac audibly cleared his throat but he was wise enough – or confident enough in his own abilities – not to get involved in that conversation.

Deep down Treville knew Ligny was only after harmless chatter, but there were some things that Treville had, over the years, grown reluctant to make light of – unless he was talking to a peer, or the King. 

A man whose brother had lost a leg – and for a time, all of his hope – to war, should know better.

It was a small miracle that during his long career Treville hadn't lost a leg like Ferrier, or worse. He had buried so many brothers-in-arms over the years, read so many eulogies, had written to the families of so many men who would never see the graves of their fathers, brothers and sons. 

Treville didn't fool himself into thinking that skill alone had protected him for all these years. A stray musket ball could lay low even the most skilled soldier.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur, but I don't think these are stories for a dinner table."

"My apologies, Captain." Although Ligny, fortunately, didn't look offended, he also didn't appear particularly chastised. "Of course, while the lords and politicians forge the battle plans, the soldiers bear the brunt of the burden of war."

"Not just the soldiers," Treville said. He doubted he'd ever be able to forget the dead of La Rochelle, who had starved for the fantastical dreams of their leaders. The memories were part of the price of victory as much the scars he bore on his skin. 

"Father never told any war stories of his own," Saint-Rémy said into the ensuing quiet. Even the Cardinal and the Duchesse had fallen silent following the last exchange between Ligny and Treville.

"Not for lack of material," Treville assured him. There had been a particular moment in the Valtelline… Treville shook his head.

André had been distraught by his discharge from the army following the amputation of his leg. He hadn't begun to write Treville until weeks after the fact, but his distress had still been evident between the lines. Perhaps telling stories of Treville had been his way of sharing something of his life with his son without feeling like he was encouraging Saint-Rémy to follow in his footsteps and suffer a similar fate. Treville wouldn't be surprised to learn that André had been the one to encourage Saint-Rémy's academic pursuits in order to set him on a different path.

"Perhaps he didn't want to upset you by causing you to imagine him in danger," he said. "I understand you were still very young when he died."

"Yes." Saint-Rémy's face fell. "And I regret that I never dared to outright ask him for details before it was too late."

Treville couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the young man. He'd often wondered what the late Sieur de Troisville would have made of the paths his children had chosen. Somehow Treville couldn't imagine his father taking much of an interest in the world of court politics his second son had entered; he had enjoyed the peace and quiet of Troisville too much.

"You once defended a castle together, didn't you?" 

Caught up in his memories, it took Treville a moment to recall the specific event Ligny was talking about.

"In Roussilon, yes. But not alone." It was hardly a tale for a dinner table. This had been when King Henri's reign had still been young. He had managed to gain the support of the majority of France before he had been crowned King, but some pockets of resistance had remained, threatening the new King and his followers.

"We supported the local garrison against a siege, using everything we had from discouraging an assault. We were fortunate that the enemy didn't possess heavy siege equipment."

Saint-Rémy perked up as he heard this. "You didn't lose a single man. I remember reading about it, the enemy never touched the castle."

"It is true, we saved the castle. They burned down the entire town instead. _Most_ of the inhabitants had made it to the castle in time, but they lost everything they had left behind in the fire."

Hugo fell silent, looking embarrassed and Treville couldn't help but feel sorry for him. It would have been kinder to leave him his fantasy of a perfect victory, but Treville wasn't going to lie about his battles. He would rather be disrespectful at this table than disrespect all the people who had lost their lives that night because of his decisions.

The Duchesse interrupted them. "Don't burden the Captain with such memories, Hugo." She motioned for their glasses to be refilled. "There is no need for this melancholy. After all, we are preparing for a royal hunt" – she turned a stern gaze on her nephew – "which the King has requested _you_ to organise."

"Me?" Saint-Rémy opened his eyes wide. "I—I'm honoured," he stammered directed at his guests, "but I'm afraid I don't have much experience with organising a hunt. Or hunting in general." He blushed again. If dinner went on any longer, his circulation would likely never recover. "I lack the necessary skills."

"There's not much to it," Cahusac said. "If the servants and the hounds or birds do their job, all you have to do is the shoot the game and not fall off your horse."

Saint-Rémy's blush deepened. "My interests lie with more academic pursuits than riding and shooting."

Cahusac was so stumped that for a moment he forgot he was the least of the guests at the Duchesse's table. "Pardon me, Sieur, are you saying your father didn't teach you to shoot?"

"He taught me a bit." Saint-Rémy jutted his chin forward. "He also taught me how to read. I cared more for the reading than the shooting."

"Ah. I was merely surprised, given that your father was a soldier."

"When I knew him, André preferred shooting over reading, but he changed a lot after leaving the regiment," Treville said. He hadn't seen André again after he had been discharged. All he knew about his family life he knew from their occasional correspondence by letter. Yet, the thought of Cahusac, a complete stranger, thinking of his old brother-in-arms as a neglectful parent simply because he had valued his son's interest in reading higher than his shooting skills didn't sit right with Treville.

"There is merit in both," he continued. "I prefer when my musketeers are proficient in their knowledge of letters as well as guns."

There were enough illiterate noblemen at court who could barely hit a wine barrel with a musket at point-blank range and yet wouldn't stop boasting of their hunting prowess after shooting some poor, crippled boar their servants had cornered for them at the risk of their lives.

"Still, I don't think I'm the right person to organise His Majesty's hunt."

"If you want, I can show you a few tricks tomorrow," Treville said. "You were going to show us around the grounds. We can practice shooting while we're out there."

"You—you would do that? For me?"

"Of course." The more Treville talked about it, the more he was beginning to genuinely enjoy the idea. Perhaps he would learn something about the family or the estate that could be of use. The fact that, for a few hours, he would have an excuse to leave all the close liaising with the Duchesse's staff to his and Richelieu's men, who were far better suited to the task than he, was an additional boon. 

"You're going to be the King's host. You should have a chance to enjoy the hunt. All we need is a gun and someone to set up a few targets."

"That can be arranged," Ligny said." If you can spare the time."

"My musketeers have their orders. They don't need my oversight every hour of the day." 

Saint-Rémy beamed at him. "Father told me of the royal hunts – he made them sound so exciting."

"It is arranged then", Treville said and returned the boy's wide smile, unaware of Richelieu's frown.

  


* * *

  


As it had already become too dark to inspect the grounds that same night, Ligny challenged his guests to a round of cards once they had finished their dinner. Richelieu declined, claiming not to be a gambling man, but Treville didn't see any reason to retire from their host's company just yet.

He was disappointed to see Saint-Rémy abandon them as well, as he wouldn't have minded talking to him some more, but apparently the young man had not yet finished moving into his temporary quarters.

The Duchesse joined them for a few rounds, but eventually she, too, retired, claiming to be exhausted from the amount of travelling she had undertaken in the past few days. It was much harder to distrust her motives to retire than the Cardinal's. She had lost the last couple of hands by wasting valuable trump cards, which was a clear sign of flagging concentration. 

"I hope you'll stay for another round, Captain?" Ligny asked once his sister had disappeared and only the two of them remained at the table. "I would feel like a poor host if I didn't offer you a chance to regain your losses."

Treville agreed. He wouldn't mind if Ligny ended up keeping his money since they were playing for mere pittances, but the wine was good and he still felt like he had something to make up to his host after his earlier churlishness. Antagonising the Duchesse's family this early into their investigation hurt them more than it helped them.

"It's a shame the Cardinal didn't join us," Ligny said as he dealt their cards. "He strikes me as a very intelligent man. I'm certain he would have learned the game quickly if he had given it a chance."

"He's a cardinal." Treville was careful to keep his eyes on his cards in order not to betray the effort it took to say these words with a straight face. He knew for a fact that Richelieu knew the game very well. Playing cards for money with the King and his courtiers was the least of his church's laws that he had broken and it certainly wasn't out of piety that he had refused to join them tonight. 

Perhaps he needed his rest after another long day in his carriage. Perhaps he had suffered another headache, but Treville didn't quite believe it. Richelieu had looked as healthy throughout the day as he ever would and he'd seemed to enjoy the show of politeness he'd put up for the Duchesse at dinner. The Cardinal rarely missed a chance to show off his eloquence, and yet tonight he'd left Treville alone to play cards with two suspected rebels.

Treville still hadn't asked him why he'd left Paris two months ago.

"It is strange," Ligny said, "from all the stories we hear about His Eminence down here, I would never have assumed he was so pious as to eschew a game of cards."

"What stories are those?" Treville felt his shoulders straighten. He tried to focus on his hand and sound nonchalant, but his whole body had grown tense. He hadn't forgotten that whatever threat the inhabitants of this house posed to the King was just as likely to befall Richelieu.

"Ah, you know, the usual… I'm sure you've heard what they say." Ligny covered his embarrassment slightly better than his nephew. "Stories about how he runs the country from the shadows by intimidating the King with his excessive wealth and tyranny." 

"Tyranny?"

"I don't know a single man who does not complain about his taxes, surely that isn't so different at court?"

Treville took Ligny's rather vague reply as a sign that the man didn't have any true grievances against Richelieu, but had merely brought up the rumours to start a conversation. It also provided Treville with an opportunity to gain some sympathy. 

"The Cardinal is the most frustrating man I know," he said. "A sentiment that is widely shared I believe."

Ligny laughed and Treville could feel some of the tension in his shoulders lessen.

"I admit I was intimidated when I received word this morning that he was coming here," Ligny said. "And on such short notice! I take it you don't find him very intimidating, Captain? You must deal with him often and intimately at court."

_Not as intimately as I used to_. 

"We don't see eye to eye on many things, but we have learned to compromise." It was true, was it not? There had been times when Richelieu had listened to him, when he'd desisted from the radical course he'd been about to embark on and given Treville time to find a solution that was easier to live with for them both.

But the fact that he sometimes listened had been precisely the reason Richelieu had given for not telling Treville about his plans regarding the Queen in advance and Treville didn't want to imagine what crucial details Richelieu might not be sharing about the present affair because he thought knew better than Treville.

"Now that I have met him," Ligny continued, "I am not so worried anymore. Oh, His Eminence possesses a very captivating presence – he can talk very engagingly, but I'm relieved to find that he eats and drinks like any other of us mortals." 

"What did you fear he was going to do once he arrived here?"

For the first time that evening, Ligny hesitated. "Regardless of whether or not all the fanciful stories about His Eminence ruling the country from behind the throne are true, he is a very powerful man. I was worried he might find our humble residence wanting."

"And cause trouble for your family with His Majesty?"

"Should I not be concerned about that?" Ligny's friendly expression turned icy. "It is no secret that my sister has been petitioning His Majesty to spare our fortifications in Troyes."

"In defiance of the Cardinal's wishes." 

"That is the reason I am worried." Ligny paused. "Do you have a sister, Captain?"

"I do. As well as a brother." Treville allowed himself to relax. Compared to Richelieu, his siblings were uncomplicated subjects to talk about. 

"But you're not part of your sister's household?"

"No. She lives in Gascony. We don't see each other very often."

"But you love her?"

What an odd question to ask. "We have always been close. I write to her and she keeps me apprised of what my niece and nephew are doing." Perhaps he should visit her again. Perhaps he should have done that while Richelieu had been away from court instead of making his musketeers worry.

"Then you understand why I am concerned about what battles my sister picks?"

"Do you not approve of her petitions?" 

"Not if they draw the ire of the First Minister." 

A reasonable argument.

"Still, my family has held that fortress since it was built." Ligny frowned. "Our father defended it against the League for King Henri. To think that His Eminence would be mad enough to tear it down because of a Huguenot rebellion on the other side of the country—"

"I don't think it is mad."

"Pardon me?"

Treville took another drink. He hadn't meant to cause another scene tonight, but he couldn't very well badmouth a policy he had, in part, come here to support.

"Would you stand by and watch your ancestors' home be turned to rubble?" There was a distinct note of disbelief in Ligny's voice.

"My family doesn't have an ancestral seat," Treville said.

The battle that took place on Ligny's face following this remark was one Treville was well acquainted with. He had seen it before on the faces of the heirs of ancient lines trying to reconcile the idolized image in their heads of the famous Captain of the King's Musketeers with the old blood in their veins that sneered at the younger breeds of nobility.

Few things confounded the old nobility more than to see the same privileges they enjoyed being bestowed on men and women who had earned their rank through something other than birth right or bloodshed. This new class was made up of ascended merchants and magistrates who had been given titles and lands because the King needed educated men in his parliament, or because, like Treville's father, they had used their fortunes made from simple trade to buy estates from Kings whose coffers were depleted by perpetual war. 

"My apologies," Ligny said after a pause. "I remember now. Your family entered our ranks only recently, and since your father neglected to buy enough titles for both his sons, and since the King has so far not cared to rectify this grievance, I gather you don't stand to inherit any of the family estates?"

"No." Ligny's barbs didn't sting. After all, Treville was the Captain of His Majesty's most decorated, most highly regarded guard regiment, and he had won his place by the King's side unaided by anything other than loyalty and the power of his sword. No noble title could compete with that high honour.

Meanwhile, the old Duc de Troyes had failed to earn a title higher than that of Sieur for his youngest son, and Ligny had never achieved anything that would have earned him a title of his own. If André had been alive to inherit the estate of Ligny, Gaspard de Ferrier would have been as untitled as Treville.

"It is no grievance to me," Treville said. "I prefer the musketeers' garrison to a fief. If I had lands, I'm afraid I would never see them."

"Still, it affects your social standing, doesn't it? What if you decided to found a family of your own? Would you not like to possess lands for your children's sake? You're still unmarried as far as I know?"

"My brother inherited Troisville from our father, and my sister already has a boy and a girl I'd be happy to leave the place to if my brother never has any children of his own." 

"That's very generous." Ligny sat back in his seat, looking interested. He appeared to have entirely forgotten his earlier offense.

"My niece and nephew are wonderful children." Treville was tempted to shrug. He didn't care for Troisville, and the fact that he had never expected to inherit it in the first place was part of the reason why he had come to Paris as a recruit all those years ago. It was different for his sister's children who were growing up in Gascony, but Treville had no connection to that piece of land. It had never been as much of a home to him as the garrison.

Since he never planned on having a family of his own, there was no one who could feel robbed by his sister's children. And if he ever were to retire from soldiering and settle down, Treville was certain that the King would happily provide him with more lands and titles than he needed to secure his pension.

"But have you no desire to take a wife and have children of your own?"

"I already have enough men to raise for the King." The musketeers were all the responsibility one man could handle within a single lifetime.

"And you're doing an impressive job from what I hear." Ligny smiled. "I had a hand in bringing up my nephew, after my brother's death. It is a wondrous thing to see boys turn into men."

Treville smiled, although he sometimes had his doubts about whether any of his musketeers could be considered _adults_ , particularly whenever he was forced to come up with fresh excuses for why the musketeers' illegal duels clearly shouldn't be judged as duels at all.

"Unfortunately, although Hugo likes to read about battles, he has never taken to any military training."

Treville shrugged. "The King needs scholars as much as soldiers." 

"A Ferrier in the King's parliament? It would be a first." Ligny twisted his lips in disdain, but he did not appear offended. "I'm sorry if I spoke harshly earlier," he said. "The Cardinal's policies are not your fault."

"A small mercy," Treville said and took another drink. Ligny didn't need to know how many of those policies that so angered the French nobility Richelieu had drafted while Treville had watched him from his bed, waiting for him to finish so they could turn to activities that required less thought. 

He was certain he had been there to see this one drafted as well, since Richelieu had first proposed it during the siege of La Rochelle and they had been reluctant to let the other out of their sight for a while after the dangers of that campaign. After all, Treville had been wounded and, as he had learned after the siege had ended, the idea to kidnap Richelieu from his camp and ransom him for the city's liberation had never been far from the Huguenot's minds. 

Even thinking about it now made Treville shudder. Even here, even after all that had transpired between them, he would never suffer any man to lay a finger on Richelieu – particularly not someone who harboured as much hatred for the Cardinal as the Huguenots of La Rochelle did.

If the Huguenots were truly behind this uprising, it was bad enough that they risked exposing their entire community to the King's wrath, but the thought of what they might have planned for the Cardinal should they get a hold of him chilled Treville to the bone. 

"What about you?" he asked, hoping to stop his thoughts from wandering further down that dark path. "You are unmarried yourself."

Treville wanted to bite his tongue as he saw Ligny's brow darken, fearing he had committed another faux pas. But after a pause his host's friendly smile returned.

"There was someone I would have married, once, but..." His expression turned unexpectedly impish as he picked his next card to play. "We're both unmarried men past the age anyone at court could have reasonably expected us to settle down, so I presume I can be frank with you, Captain. I've since come to appreciate more flexible arrangements. Fortunately, there are a few ladies who appreciate these kinds of engagements."

Treville kept a neutral expression. Mistresses hadn't come up when the musketeers and the Cardinal's men had discussed Ligny along with the rest of Troyes' family two nights ago, but it wasn't surprising that he should have his affairs. He was a handsome man, fair-haired and well-built. Moreover, he was rich. Troyes was a wealthy region and Treville actively tried to banish the thought of how easy it would be, thanks to its healthy trade, for a shipment of smuggled arms to disappear in the town. Another reminder of how impossible His Majesty's scheme really was.

Realising that Ligny was still watching him, Treville simply nodded, hoping his host wasn't expecting more of a reaction from him. He didn't have much personal experience with those kinds of affairs, since, apart some minor interruptions, he had been sleeping with Richelieu for – how long now?

Almost half a year had passed since he'd last been with Richelieu, and in all that time Treville had not once thought of looking for someone else. 

Richelieu had always showed less restraint in that regard. He frequently took mistresses. 

Oh, Treville knew Richelieu didn't keep them solely for their companionship. He knew they didn't just soothe the Cardinal's headaches when Treville was unavailable. They were his agents, his eyes and ears in the suite of any noblewoman they could attach themselves to, and they were paid for their services with the kind of patronage and riches only the First Minister could bestow. 

In the beginning, Treville had minded them. Eventually, he had come to ignore them, avoiding them at court as much as he could and, as Richelieu had aged, there had been less of them. 

These mistresses sporadically shared Richelieu's bed, but they had never truly shared his life. Once they and the Cardinal had profited of each other for a while, both parties moved on. 

Treville couldn't help the rueful mood that came over him as he remembered how he had always considered himself so different from them. 

Although Richelieu and he had had their differences over the years, somehow Treville had never assumed things would one day break down between them so completely that moving on would be the only way forward for the two of them.

Through the years he had grown to accept that there were some secrets Richelieu had to keep even from him, but he had trusted Richelieu to choose the nature of those secrets more wisely. Savoy should have been his final warning.

He had trusted Richelieu to know that Treville would judge his plans for France fairly whenever he shared them. He had trusted Richelieu to respect him and his plea for honesty when it came to the fate of Kings and Queens. Like a fool, he had assumed Richelieu had cared enough to trust _him_.

Ligny cleared his throat. "Is something the matter with your cards, Captain?" 

"I beg your pardon?"

"You've been staring at them for a while without putting one down."

Treville had forgotten that they were still playing. 

He did not win back any more of his money that night as he was barely paying any attention to the cards he was playing. Ligny soon ended the game, claiming that he was tired, but it was more likely that he would have considered it robbery to continue to play against Treville in his distracted state. 

The Sieur kindly called a servant to show his guest the way to his chambers, but the faces of the dead watching them from their portraits as he was led upstairs to his apartments did not help Treville focus on brighter thoughts. 

He recognised the Duchesse's parents in those paintings, as well as André and his wife Éléonore.

The Sieur de Ligny really did look a lot like his late brother.

But despite his lack of concentration while playing with Ligny, rest was far from Treville's mind when he finally found himself alone in his quarters. The first thing he did once the servant escorting him had left was to check the windows. The apartments he had taken over from Saint-Rémy were on the first floor – close to the Cardinal's. They overlooked a part of the manor's gardens, but since it was already too dark to reliably tell a birch from a palm tree, all Treville could determine for sure was that the trees and the large central fountain could easily provide cover for an assassin taking aim at the windows.

Pulling the curtains shut, he continued his inspection inside the rooms, looking for any spots that could possibly conceal a threat. He hoped that in the Cardinal's chambers Cahusac had done the same. He paused as it occurred to him that there was one way to be sure of that. 

A few months ago he would have thought nothing of paying Richelieu a night-time-visit even in a stranger's house. After all, they had every right to confer about the day's events. 

Although one had to hope for Richelieu's sake that he was asleep by now, Treville knew him well enough to assume that he would find the Cardinal awake, pondering their next move.

The fact that their men were in place to continue the investigation on their own would not have caused him to relax. Despite his military training, Richelieu had never seen much value in delegating tasks, preferring to do as much work as he possibly could by himself. Combined with his penchant for not telling his agents more than they absolutely needed to know to get the job done, this habit made for an exhausting way to run a regiment, let alone a country.

Treville rubbed his eyes. Richelieu would not be helping their cause by running himself ragged, but there was nothing he could about it. Even if he _wanted_ to see Richelieu just now and found him busy at work at the little desk he took with him wherever he travelled, what was he going to do? Order the First Minister of France to go to sleep?

In another time, Treville would just have picked him up and carried him to bed to make his point. More often than not this had caused Richelieu to turn his mind to more pleasant activities, but Treville didn't imagine Richelieu would tolerate anything like that under the current circumstances and he had no desire to test him.

Treville gave the bed in the centre of the room a rueful look. It looked comfortable enough, at least thrice the size of his cot, with silken sheets and a fur-duvet almost as soft looking as Richelieu's bed in the Palais Cardinal.

But since he feared the direction his thoughts might take if he lay down, Treville headed for the door, deciding that that if he couldn't sleep, he might as well put the night to good use by exploring as much of the residence as he could access. As the residence was supposedly empty apart from their men, the Duchesse's family and her servants, he didn't expect to encounter much resistance.

Upon leaving his apartments, Treville found the hall outside dark, but Ligny's servant had fortunately left him a light for the night. He couldn't decide whether he was relieved or disappointed to see that the Duchesse had not ordered any servants to keep watch over him, as the hall was empty apart from the musketeers on duty guarding his door. Not to post any spies befitted Troyes' role as the simple, unsuspecting hostess, as it not only suggested that she trusted her guests, but even more so that there was nothing here she cared to hide from them.

Pausing only to return his musketeers' salutes, Treville walked out into the dark hall, deciding to head away from the Cardinal's apartments.

It really was none of his business what the Cardinal was doing at this hour. He really didn't need to check on him. 

No.

_He shouldn't._

Trying the nearest door, Treville found it unlocked and himself in a reading room. He quickly dimmed his lamp as he spotted the large windows at the opposite end of the room. They probably were a blessing to any reader during the daytime, but Treville couldn't risk anyone passing by outside to spot his light. Although Troyes had not explicitly forbidden her guests from roaming the residence at night, it wasn't something a polite guest would do and Treville preferred to be seen as a polite guest rather than an intruder having to explain his curiosity.

Slowly, he walked along the shelves, careful not to make a sound as he picked out books, but he found nothing of interest. The most exciting texts he recognised were fencing manuals, treatises on what made a good hunting horse and a few philosophical texts by famous Catholic scholars. There was nothing controversial on the shelves. Nothing obviously damning. There were no Huguenot writings directed against the King or the Catholic church. No essays inciting rebellion. 

Treville took another turn around the room before he stopped in front of the door leading to the adjoining room. The door was narrow and lacked ornamentation, making it look very private. Treville paused to listen, but wherever this door led, it was quiet, and there was no light shining out through the key-hole. 

Turning the handle, Treville learned with satisfaction that this room, took, was unlocked – but he froze when he entered and realised that it was occupied. It was a small office, arranged in a similar manner to the reading room, but there was a familiar figure bent over the desk, outlined against the soft moonlight falling through the window. 

The sight stopped Treville's breath for a moment. Richelieu was still wearing that damn black-and-red soutane that made his shoulders look so wide and his waist so boyishly narrow.

Richelieu's lamp, too, had been dimmed, explaining why its light hadn't reached beyond the door.

"Are you lost?" Treville asked and had the rare luck of seeing Cardinal Richelieu jump in surprise.

" _What are you doing here_?"

"I could ask you the same."

It was night. A couple of hours after Richelieu had supposedly retreated to his quarters. And yet here he was, standing in a dark office in the summer residence of a suspected rebel, so absorbed in his task that Treville had been able to surprise him.

And he was alone.

Asking what Richelieu thought he was doing here was not the question Treville needed to be asking.

Treville quickly closed the door behind him. "You came here _alone_?"

"No, of course not, the spirit of the Duchesse's late consort escorted me."

In a less dire situation, Treville would have rolled his eyes. "Where are your guards?"

"I assume they are keeping my apartments safe, since that is what I ordered them to do."

"They're guarding your apartments without you in them? Does Captain Cahusac know where you are?" Treville couldn't have possibly been so wrong about the young man when he had recommended him as Captain Trudeau's successor.

"I don't see why it should matter."

So Cahusac didn't know. It appeared that Richelieu didn't care to hear his Guard Captain's opinions on his reckless schemes any more than he had cared about Treville's.

"Why should it matter that anyone here wishing you harm could easily attack you and make it look like a mishap if they catch you wandering alone at night alone?" 

"And what do your musketeers think about their Captain doing the same?"

"I am not the one who is very likely a main target of this plot!"

"I know!"

There were harsher words yet on Treville's tongue but the agitation in the Cardinal's voice and the way he clasped his hands in front of him gave him pause. It had to have been a trick of the shadows, but Treville thought he saw the Cardinal shiver.

It wasn't right. Richelieu was the First Minister. The man wo sacrificed his health and sanity every day to fight for a unified France. His brave Armand. He shouldn't have to be afraid of anyone.

Treville sighed. Richelieu also really shouldn't be out here, so vulnerable and lonely in the shadows. Treville _needed_ to grab him and drag him back to his apartments – preferably in front of his Captain so Cahusac could ensure he stayed where he would be safe for the rest of the night. 

But Treville didn't _want_ to argue. 

He _wanted_ to ride back to Paris and never think about cardinals and court intrigue ever again. 

But, unfortunately, he had sworn an oath to do his duty, which, at present, required him to skulk around their enemy's home at night and berate wayward cardinals.

"Have you found anything?" he asked.

"No." Richelieu took a moment to rearrange the skirt of his cassock, brushing his anxiety off like dust. "Unless I can convince His Majesty to declare a small library full of boring reading material a crime."

They both fell silent for a moment. Richelieu searched Treville's face. 

It would have been so easy to smile at his joke. 

And all at once Treville realised, no, he simply _knew_ , that this was the first time they'd been alone with each other in two months – truly alone. There were no musketeers here, no Red Guards, no King, not even a smuggler's pistol on a table demanding their attention. It was just them.

What had they both been hoping to find in this room? As if a rebel would leave the evidence that could condemn them to the executioner's block for everyone to stumble upon in an unlocked reading room.

They had found each other in a place neither of them should have been in, driven by insomnia, looking for some peace of mind after a draining journey.

Treville returned Richelieu's searching gaze. The Cardinal's eyes shone bright in the silver moonlight. His dark cassock made for a stark contrast against his pale skin as the light from the windows cast his aquiline features into sharp relief. Even in his red silk robes he couldn't have looked more _real_.

Richelieu's agreement to the King's scheme was reckless, his presence here, alone in this chamber was madness. But he wouldn't be the man Treville had once so adored if he acted any differently. 

Who better to handle a delicate situation than the Cardinal himself?

Not even the fact that failure could cost him his life ever stopped Richelieu kept taking immense risks to make sure that things were done _right_. 

If only it had been granted to Treville to hold on to that image of him – dutiful, driven, brave. He'd be pulling Richelieu into his arms right now, kissing him, keeping him close until his fear subsided.

Once, Richelieu had shown enough trust to kiss Treville for the first time, to invite him into his bed. That had been a risk to, trusting his secret, his love, his life to a man who could so easily throw it all way. 

If only that trust between them could have lasted.

Treville's fingers twitched.

Two months since they had parted. _Two months._

It had been no time at all.

It had been all of time.

It had been easier to be angry at Richelieu than these past few months than to admit that he had missed him.

Richelieu was the first to look away and Treville saw his hand tremble as it brushed against the light on the desk.

In a different time, in a different world, Treville might have caught that trembling, long-fingered hand and held it.

Treville balled his hands at his sides.

"We should go," he said.

"Where?"

Treville decided he had to be imagining the breathlessness of Richelieu's voice. 

"Back to your guards before Troyes finds you." What a bad idea it had been to come here.

Richelieu pursed his lips. "Are you going to _order_ me to go?"

It would have been so easy just to take hold of him. To leave – with him – or to stay. To stay the entire night in this room together because the night was long and dark and too full of too many dangers against which a black robe, beautiful as it was, offered not protection.

But how could Treville expect the musketeers to continue to respect him if he did any of those things?

And why did he assume Richelieu would welcome it if he tried?

Treville's limbs were heavy as lead as he turned to leave.

"You realise the King sent us here to find the missing arms and prepare his arrival, not to make friends of his enemies?"

Treville stopped. It took him a moment to understand what Richelieu was referring to.

"Our men have barely begun their work. Right now the Duchesse's family is cooperating. Don't you think ensuring that they stay as forthcoming for as long as possible is worth earning their trust?"

"So you think you are doing us a favour by teaching one of our suspects to shoot?"

"Yes. I do." The fact that he was protecting André's son from future embarrassment was merely an added incentive. Treville had been a soldier long enough to know that more often than not diplomacy led to more beneficial outcomes for both parties than battles.

"Captain." 

Treville looked back at Richelieu. It was so strange to hear him call him by his rank while they were alone.

As suddenly as it had appeared the aggressive tone had disappeared from the Cardinal's voice. He sounded genuinely concerned.

"Just don't forget why we're here."

Looking at Richelieu, his narrow frame outlined against the window, Treville was once again reminded of how easy it would be to walk over to him and wrap his arm around that thin waist in the darkness. How easy it would be to touch that pale, moonlit cheek and press his lips to his skin.

Richelieu took a step towards him.

Treville swallowed. "Be careful," he said, and walked out of the door, back the way he had come.

When Treville arrived at his apartments – alone – and lay down to sleep, he dreamt of André de Ferrier, of Rossignol, and of the dead of La Rochelle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am playing fast and loose with facts here. I chose Troyes for the seat of the Duchesse and her family not for its historical significance, but because I needed a duchy that was reasonably close to Paris, had at least _some_ connection to the Huguenots at the time and ideally lacked a historical Duc during the period this fic is set, so I could go absolutely wild with making up a fictional ruling family. 
> 
> As there were no Ducs de Troyes in the first half of the 17th century, I don't feel too much like a villain for misusing that title for the purposes of this fic. Saint-Rémy is such a common place name that I thought I might get away with appropriating that one as well. Ligny, … oh, he went through a lot of names during the writing process. I finally settled on Ligny because I like the sound of it. 
> 
> Accordingly, the keep, the village and the residence that all play a part in this story are fictional as well.
> 
> I am using the French titles "Duc" and "Duchesse" in this fic instead of English titles analogous to the show's frequent use of "Comte" and "Comtesse" (and even though the show itself is incredibly inconsistent with its use of titles, the French titles simply look less out of place in front of French names).


	6. Chapter 6

The King couldn't have picked a more promising place for a hunt – if he ever got the chance to hold it. Richelieu and Treville had spent the morning crossing open fields and travelling the expansive woods in Saint-Rémy's company. They had finally stopped by a series of glittering ponds only a short ride away from the farthest outbuildings of the residence, ending their tour of the grounds. A lonely duck was eyeing them suspiciously from between the low reeds, and Richelieu could see a carp's fin break the surface of the water.

Deer, fowl or hare; the King was unlikely to want for game.

But this false Arcadia didn't fool Richelieu. It was a different kind of hunt that occupied his mind. Casting a look back at the two Red Guards accompanying him, he saw that they were keeping an eye on the dark woods behind.

The woods didn't appear as dense and foreboding anymore in the clear morning sunlight as they had on the previous evening, but Richelieu's skin prickled every time he turned his back on them.

Last night, Treville had had the nerve to chide him for exploring the residence on his own. As though Richelieu didn't know the danger he was in. As though he couldn't feel death breathing down his neck at any moment. 

What was Richelieu supposed to do? Sit in his bedroom and wait for this conspiracy to fall apart on its own? 

Richelieu watched the sunlight break and sparkle on the water with disgust. The ponds, the animals – everything here was too perfect, too innocent, and too pure, just like their host.

Saint-Rémy flushed with pleasure when Treville complimented his family's lands as though he had raised them from the mud all by himself, and Richelieu couldn't help but resent him for it. Without his aunt and uncle to hold him back, all it took was an encouraging word from the Captain for the restraint the young man had shown last night to drop away.

"I hope I can keep up with the royal suite during the hunt," Saint-Rémy said. "I'm not much of a rider."

"No man I've taught ever fell off their horse during a hunt." Treville smiled. Smiles came easily to him around the boy. Richelieu resented that as well.

"Indeed, Monsieur." The Cardinal's own smile was icy. "You should be more concerned about your horse becoming swaybacked from your posture."

Although his posture had been adequate throughout the morning, as soon was Richelieu finished talking, Saint-Rémy slouched on his horse as though he meant to disappear into the saddle.

The sight was worth suffering Treville's glower.

"The Cardinal has a poor sense of humour. You've been handling your horse fine all morning."

"Playing the role of huntmaster at a royal hunt requires better than 'fine'."

Treville glared at him as though Richelieu had suggested sharing an inconvenient envoy's travel route with a bandit mob. It could almost make Richelieu forget the past few months of indifference.

"The Cardinal hasn't been part of a royal hunting party for a while and misremembers what it's like. I don't think you have much to worry about, but we can ride out again tomorrow if you want the exercise."

"Yes, I would like that. Thank you, Captain." They were almost back at the residence now, coming within sight of the makeshift shooting range that had been set up for them. "But first, I want to take you up on your offer of teaching me a trick or two. Unless you wish to rest first," Saint-Rémy added hastily, as though it had only just occurred to him that his guests had been on horseback since breakfast and that it had to be noon by now.

Treville laughed at the suggestion that he might have been tired. "I've shot defenders off their battlements after _marches_ longer than this." The fact that he had been a lot younger the last time he had been forced to march anywhere didn't appear to occur to the Captain. The reminder already lay on Richelieu's tongue, when Treville challenged Saint-Rémy to gallop the short distance to the shooting range. 

Treville was racing ahead before Saint-Rémy had a chance to react, his blue musketeer cloak swelling prettily in the wind. Saint-Rémy was after him in the blink of an eye. It was a wonder the boy's hat didn't fall off his floppy hair at the speed they were going.

Richelieu reined in his horse to stop it from running after them. He had not come to Troyes to play. He certainly hadn't come here to watch Treville show off for this child.

Last night, Richelieu hadn't slept any better than he had at that inn. He had barely been able to close his eyes, as he had been listening for the sound of footsteps in the hall and wondering whether death might come through poison or a dagger.

What a fool he had been to return to Paris and offer his services again to His Majesty and his ungrateful subjects. He had exchanged his family's countryside manor harbouring the memories of one civil war for a summer residence bearing the seeds of another.

And what had Treville been doing last night? He had reproached Richelieu for his insomnia and feigned concern for his safety. After looking at Richelieu so imploringly, he had simply left. He had returned to his apartments alone, leaving Richelieu to his nightmares.

Richelieu gritted his teeth. 

It hadn't taken Treville long to forget his concern. One would never be able to tell how precarious their situation was from the air of abandon the Captain had been exhibiting all morning. He had not even once suggested taking musketeers with them to reinforce their escort while they were out with Saint-Rémy. As though Treville didn't believe that there was anything to fear. 

That blushing, curly-haired fool and his family were still prime subjects in their search for the missing Spanish arms, a fact that should have discouraged Treville's friendly rapport with the young Sieur. But although the Captain wasn't usually a very talkative man, he and Saint-Rémy had barely shut up about King Henri's campaigns and Treville and Ferrier's old regiment.

By the time Richelieu had caught up with Treville and Saint-Rémy, the two of them had already tethered their horses and Treville was taking aim at the first target. His shot hit the mark square in the centre. Of course. Richelieu didn't deserve the satisfaction of seeing him miss his shot after all this boasting.

_Nothing was ever hard for Treville._

Saint-Rémy grinned in delight.

_All the world loved him._

They were so caught up in their game that they didn't even take notice of Richelieu until he dismounted.

"Your Eminence, you should join us," Saint-Rémy said. Richelieu's chilly mood was lost on him. "You can take the next shot."

Richelieu gave the wood and straw targets a disparaging look. Although he rarely took the time anymore to hone his shooting skills, the targets didn't look too hard to hit. But still he declined. He had no intention of lowering his guard in front of a suspected rebel. It was bad enough that Treville didn't see anything wrong with teaching Saint-Rémy to shoot. Perhaps the Captain would change his mind when the boy switched from straw targets to musketeers.

"Later, perhaps." Richelieu made sure to show as many teeth as possible as he smiled at the young man. "You go ahead, Monsieur. This is supposed to be your lesson, and the Captain can teach you much better than a cleric could."

Saint-Rémy shrugged. "I don't know why I asked."

Richelieu pursed his lips. The young Sieur had been so polite until now, absorbing all of Richelieu's barbs like a lanky, floppy-haired sponge. But even this sudden spark of confidence quickly died when he took aim at the targets.

"I haven't done any shooting in years."

Richelieu's lips twitched. Saint-Rémy was fortunate, to have lived so many of his formative years during a period of relative peace. The Huguenot uprising that had sprung up in the wake of La Rochelle had been the most recent internal conflict since the war Marie de Medici had waged against her son, and neither of these conflicts had touched Troyes – so far to the East – apart from a small influx of refugees.

Richelieu doubted that Saint-Rémy was aware of the incredible privilege he enjoyed as a soldier's son who didn't know how to fire a gun, and as a young man who was able to indulge in his fascination with war through stories he hadn't been a part of.

_Just the type to sympathise with rebels._

Saint-Rémy had no idea what rebellion entailed. No idea what war meant. It was people like him who would unleash that beast on their fellow Frenchmen, believing it could be stopped at will.

Unless Richelieu could root out this conspiracy, there were not going to be any young men as fortunate as Saint-Rémy for quite some time.

"Just try." Treville's cheerful words ended Richelieu's ruminations. The Captain had put on that damned encouraging smile again. "If you learned it once, you can learn it again. 

Since Treville's attention was wholly taken up by his pupil, Richelieu didn't bother hiding his smirk when the young man's shot only chipped the target's edge.

"Try again," Treville said. "Take your time to steady your aim before you shoot."

Richelieu's amusement grew as Saint-Rémy's second shot went wild, not indicating any increased control over his gun.

Saint-Rémy's poor shot prompted a thoughtful noise from Treville, as though the Captain hadn't expected his pupil to be quite so terrible at shooting stationary discs. He stopped the young man from reloading his gun and took aim himself to show the boy how to hold the pistol steady.

Richelieu missed the next shot as the pair of Red Guards making up his escort directed his attention to another guardsman approaching from the residence on horseback. After another moment or two, Richelieu recognised Captain Cahusac.

Although Saint-Rémy didn't appear to be interested in anything the Cardinal was doing as long as Treville was around, Richelieu walked away from the shooting range until he was sure Cahusac and he couldn't be overheard.

"Is it done?"

"Our men at Troyes report that they haven't met any resistance to their demands made with regards to the keep. They are working in tandem with the musketeers as you ordered. Messengers will arrive from the keep every couple of hours, night and day."

"Are the musketeers giving your men any trouble?"

"No. They appear to be behaving themselves for once." Cahusac's good humour disappeared when his eyes strayed to the shooting range. "What about Captain Treville?"

"What about him?"

"This plot is as likely to be directed against you as His Majesty. Can you trust the Captain not to work against you if the conspirators approach him?"

For a brief moment Richelieu was too stunned to speak. The idea was ludicrous. Treville wouldn't… not even now. Not Treville. Not the only man at court who could speak of honour without blushing.

"His damned honour would never allow it."

Cahusac cast a dark look at the shooting range where Treville was still trying to instruct Saint-Rémy on how to shoot straw targets.

"Can you be so certain?"

_'The kindest, noblest, and most forgiving man in all of France.'_

Richelieu shook his head to disperse the echo of Concini's mocking, but he knew better than anyone that Treville had the unfortunate tendency to make poor decisions when he acted on his own conscience. He would cut out his own heart to fulfil his duty to the King and Queen.

Richelieu looked away, towards the silver surface of the ponds in the distance. "I hope you are not foolish enough to ever mention such thoughts within earshot of the musketeers. Under the current circumstances we cannot afford any quarrels."

"I am sorry Your Eminence. It is my duty to protect you, and since the musketeers bear you no love—"

"That is enough!" 

Cahusac averted his eyes, and Richelieu elected to ignore the way he grinded his teeth.

"What about the other task I gave you?"

Cahusac cleared his throat. "The villagers appear to be reasonably satisfied with the Duchesse." He grimaced, knowing his employer wouldn't like what he had to say next. "They are particularly impressed that she managed to hold on to the keep for so long, despite your well-known demands for it to be torn down."

Richelieu didn't deign to frown. "What else? What about the brother? Doesn't he resent being passed over for a woman?"

"Apparently it is family tradition for the eldest child to inherit – however, there are only two other records of a woman inheriting over a brother that we could find, both in minor branches of the family. Still, some think Ligny is weak for not contesting his sister's right to rule, others praise his devotion to his family, and to his nephew in particular. Apparently Ligny was engaged to Saint-Rémy's mother before their parents had a change of heart and she married André instead. From what I hear he's had mistresses since, but he never formally courted any of them."

Richelieu paused, casting a look back at the shooting range, where Treville had taken hold of Saint-Rény's hand in an attempt to show him how to take better aim.

"And the nephew?"

"The Sieur de Saint-Rémy appears to be well-liked, by the commoners as well as the bourgeoisie. He is often found at the salons in Troyes, and apparently he even tutors the Mayor's children."

An odd occupation for the nephew of their lady, and certainly not what Richelieu had expected to find when he had tasked Cahusac to make enquiries into the family's reputation, but then, everything about the young man's background was slightly puzzling.

"Hopefully, he doesn't instruct them in any martial matters."

Treville had just stepped behind Saint-Rémy to take sight along his gun. 

"You are not related to his family by chance, Your Eminence? To his mother's family, perhaps?"

"No!" Richelieu thought his eyes were going to fall out of his skull as he stared his captain down. Perhaps Richelieu had made a mistake when, only a few months ago, he had decided not to keep his new captain at arm's length, if it caused Cahusac to feel entitled to spout such nonsense.

Cahusac's face flushed in embarrassment. "Ah. It's just… while we were at Richelieu I couldn't help but notice the paintings of you as a young cadet and as a bishop. There is a certain resemblance between the Sieur and you in those paintings."

"We are not related!" Richelieu shot his Captain a murderous look. He didn't think he had ever felt as insulted as by the suggestion that he had once looked anything like that floppy-haired idiot.

"I meant no offense, Your Eminence."

Cahusac took a step back and Richelieu looked away to study the Duchesse's nephew.

Perhaps Saint-Rémy and he were of the same height. And perhaps Richelieu had never been the fittest, most well-muscled recruit, but even when his hair still had been that dark and long, it had never been so ridiculously thick and curly. 

He watched as Treville tapped Saint-Rémy's shoulder and hip, correcting his stance before taking his slender, scholarly hand in his to help him take aim again.

Richelieu looked away. Treville had never offered to teach _him_ to shoot like that.

"What else?" he said, turning back towards his captain.

Cahusac hesitated and Richelieu could feel himself begin to lose his temper. "Out with it!"

"Apparently the Sieur _knows his Latin_."

Richelieu was struck dumb for a moment. He had to fight to stop himself looking back at Treville and Saint-Rémy, and the way the younger man's delicate hand looked in Treville's rough paw.

"They used those exact words?"

"Our scouts didn't hear anything more definite than rumours and they had to dig deep to find someone willing to utter even that much. The people here seem very fond of him – as fond as any subject could be of a nobleman."

Richelieu swallowed. It was a wide-spread phrase to describe a certain subset of people – of men, to be precise. Men such as Treville and him.

The Cardinal's face was perfectly blank as he answered. "Perhaps that is why his family is keeping him away from court."

"Perhaps."

Richelieu's heart was pounding in his throat as he looked back towards Saint-Rémy. He was too far away to be sure, but he thought he saw the young man relax as he leant back against the Captain whose bravery and experience he so adored. 

He didn't stay to watch Saint-Rémy take his next shot.

  


* * *

  


Treville stayed at the shooting range until Saint-Rémy was able to reliably hit most of the practice targets. Once he was satisfied with his pupil's progress, they took their horses for another stroll around the grounds, riding from the ponds to the edge of the woods where they decided to stay for a while. 

As they sat down in the shade of a tree Saint-Rémy begged Treville for more details on his earliest battles. This time, Treville decided to stick to brighter tales. He spoke of his successes, of the friends he had made, of the first time he had been in the presence of the old King. As he spoke, it occurred to him that he hadn't spoken much of that period in quite a long while. 

It had been a different time back then. For one, things had seemed far less certain under King Henri and Marie de Medici than they were now under Louis and Richelieu. But Treville had also been far less lonely.

De Foix would have been appalled to learn how his dear Gascon friend had been spending his evenings for the past months – or years, even, given how much he had disliked Richelieu. But de Foix was gone now, slain leading Swedish troops to war against the Holy Roman Empire. He had walked away from Treville and from France a long time ago. After Belgard. 

Treville sighed. Many things had changed for him after Belgard. He had been promoted and eventually the young King had founded the Musketeers, but Treville had never found anyone he had been as close to as to the friends he had lost. 

Perhaps it was that he hadn't tried particularly hard to find someone after what had happened with Belgard. Perhaps Richelieu wasn't the only one who had learned to be too distrustful over the years.

The Kings court wasn't entirely made up of snakes. There were some good fighting men left, honourable men like the Comte de Toiras, the governor of the Île de Ré, who had made a name for himself so recently during the siege of La Rochelle. Treville had spoken to him often during the weeks the Comte had spent recuperating in Paris and the subsequent campaign in Italy.

Perhaps, if actually bothered to look, Treville could find better uses for his time than locking himself up in his office or beating up recruits during training.

"Captain?"

Treville blinked in the sunlight as he turned his head back towards his companion. Saint-Rémy was looking at him from underneath his dark brown curls, concern written large in his grey eyes, clear as daylight. 

"I didn't mean to awaken painful memories. It is just – my aunt and uncle hardly ever talk about the time my father spent in King Henri's army."

"Hm?"

"You were being so quiet just now."

"Ah." Treville cleared his throat. "Don't apologise. It is unavoidable to be reminded of these matters sometimes, and not all of the memories are unpleasant."

"I'm glad." Saint-Rémy's smile looked genuine enough. "I couldn't imagine sticking with a profession for years and gaining nothing from it but pain."

"Did your uncle never offer to train you?"

Saint-Rémy put on a wry smile. "He did, but I declined. He tried to teach me how to fence when I was a boy. He is good – hasn't lost a fight since he was my age – but I didn't take to it." 

"But your uncle never was a soldier?"

"No."

Treville nodded to himself. He enjoyed a friendly sparring match as much as any musketeer did and he respected Ligny's interest in fencing, but there was a great difference between fighting for sport and fighting for one's life and the lives of your brothers-in-arms.

"He's not a very patient teacher," Saint-Rémy continued. "I learned more at the university."

"No illegals duels I hope?"

The young man's eyes turned round. "No! Just practice."

Treville leaned back against the tree. "Perhaps you can show me what you learned some time."

Saint-Rémy smiled. "Perhaps." 

Treville found himself returning the young man's smile and quickly turned his head away. He took a long look at his surroundings, the sunbathed meadow and the peacefully grazing horses. 

It was one of those rare days in fall without a single cloud in the sky. In the distance, the fish ponds glittered, and the white walls of the Duchesse's residence glowed in the afternoon sun. 

It was a fine residence. The main building stood three stories tall, flanked by two lower wings, all of it built less than thirty years ago in the contemporary style.

That Treville should be thinking of war and betrayal in such a place … it was hard enough to believe that he had come here to uncover a conspiracy:

When Treville had first dreamt of a military career in the King's service he could never have imagined how many intrigues he would become entangled in. Although it no longer took him by surprise, he still hadn't grown entirely comfortable with this aspect of his position, and he couldn't help but think how much easier his life would be, if all usurpers would just openly challenge him to a duel.

In a way, Treville was lucky that the Cardinal was as skilled at deceit as he was, since it meant he didn't often require help with those matters. But, unfortunately, the Cardinal's habit to keep his secrets to himself whenever they didn't require Treville's involvement had also nearly cost their Queen her life – and Treville... 

Even after all these months Treville didn't have the words to describe what he had lost when Richelieu had confessed his crime to him.

"This captaincy must mean a lot to you."

Treville jumped when Saint-Rémy spoke up again. As he had patiently, silently waited for Treville to collect his thoughts, his presence had simply faded from the Captain's mind. Saint-Rémy was such a polite young man, so unlike the lively musketeers. The boy reminded Treville of the Cardinal in that regard. Richelieu had learned how to command a room with his mere presence, but he could also make a man forget he was listening when he wanted to. 

"You're a captain by rank," the young Sieur continued, "but you stand shoulder to shoulder with the King's marshals."

Treville smiled. "I've always dreamt of becoming a marshal." No one had ever contested his right to take part in the King's councils of war. No one had ever questioned his authority to his face. But although it was a high honour to command the King's Musketeers in His Majesty's name – but it was something else entirely to command armies. 

"Did you ever think about contacting your father's old commander and asking for a recommendation?" he asked.

"To become a soldier?" Saint-Rémy twisted his mouth. "I don't think that would end well."

"Don't be so quick to dismiss the idea. Not every recruit is an expert marksman when they join." Treville had trained too many musketeers from all kinds of backgrounds to exclude anyone because they didn’t lead the lives society expected them to lead. Porthos had never sat on a horse before Treville had taken him from the infantry, and now he was one of the finest horsemen in the regiment.

"But I expect it is helpful," Saint-Rémy said. "I doubt I would have fared as well in the King's army as you. I enjoyed hearing father talk about his brothers-in-arms, but the way he described the food and the marching and the lack of a bed on campaign sounded far less appealing."

"It becomes more appealing after a time." Treville smirked. It had been a while since he'd had to sleep on the ground. "The secret is to become an officer."

They shared a brief smile before Saint-Rémy shook his head. "I always knew I wanted to study the law. My family didn't mind."

"You are fortunate. Not many young men in your position have the opportunity to choose their own path as freely." Given that Saint-Rémy was the only heir to one of the wealthiest duchés in France, Treville would have expected Troyes and Ligny to have pushed their nephew towards a different future.

"Did you choose?" Saint-Rémy asked. "To become a soldier?"

Treville frowned, thinking. "It hardly matters," he said. "I don't believe I am suited to any other life."

Treville had only been the second son, but his mother had made it clear early on that she wanted him at court. She had moved heaven and earth to ensure he had the best chance a protestant merchant's son from the end of the world could have – by calling in old favours to secure him a position in a prestigious cavalry regiment, and selling his soul by making him convert to Catholicism. Luckily, Treville had always cared more for soldiering than salvation. Even if there had been other options, he didn't think he would have passed up a chance to join such a prestigious regiment as the old King's own Chevau-légers.

"You are the Captain of the King's musketeers. A veteran of many famous campaigns. Every man in France has heard your name. To an outsider at least, it sounds like you made the right decision."

Treville snorted, but he couldn't deny that, when put like this, it appeared that the merchant's son from Gascony truly had come a long way.

At his side, Saint-Rémy patted his pistols. "Even though my talents evidently lie elsewhere, I was wondering if you would consider giving another lesson tomorrow?"

"Of course." Unless, by then, the musketeers had uncovered more urgent matters for him to attend to.

"I'm glad. Although I don't think His Eminence will appreciate another invitation."

Treville took a deep breath. "Pay him no mind," he said, but he didn't quite manage to sound as light-hearted as he had intended. The previous evening, Treville had argued that winning their hosts' friendship and trust could be incremental to their investigations. But Richelieu had evidentially decided to disregard his advice, again. 

Instead, the Cardinal had been uncommonly hostile all morning, and now Treville had to try and repair what damage Richelieu had wrought by making up lies on his behalf – again.

"His own military training was cut short before he graduated from the academy," Treville said. "It is a sore spot." In truth, Richelieu didn't care that he had never finished his training. What he had learned at the academy, combined with his intellect, had sufficed to lead Richelieu to victory in every campaign he had undertaken as of yet. And although the Cardinal tended to neglect his training in favour of his political work, he still practiced his shot and his sword-arm from time to time.

"Do you think he was afraid I would outshoot him?" Saint-Rémy grinned. "Was there really any chance of that?"

"There could be one day, if you keep at it."

"So he is not a military man, and yet he leads the King's armies against the enemies of his faith?"

Treville frowned. "I presume you are referring to La Rochelle?"

"Might have been a bit harder to convince the rest of France that what happened there was righteous if they had been Catholics."

"If they had been Catholics there would have been no uprising." There was no divorcing what had happened at La Rochelle from the chosen faith of its inhabitants. This faith was the reason they had challenged the King.

"I was there, too," Treville said. "I was wounded. Lost some good men."

Saint-Rémy fell silent, but at least he wasn't stupid enough to try and apologise. 

"You don't seem to have a high opinion of the Cardinal?" Treville had not missed that Saint-Rémy had referred to Catholicism as Richelieu's faith, not _our_ faith.

"Of the Church."

Treville met Saint-Rémy's gaze and nearly jumped at the severity he found there.

"We didn't fight them because they were Huguenots," Treville said. "We fought them because they were rebels."

Saint-Rémy's expression darkened. "I heard Rohan is being treated like a prince in Venice." The Duc was spending his exile in the Italian city state. A fairly mild punishment for inciting a rebellion, and neither King nor Cardinal had been particularly happy about it, but they knew from experience that the nobler the blood, the more trouble an execution would cause.

Occasionally, Treville had wondered who would be the first to push Richelieu to cross that line. He had expected it to be Gaston, or one of King Henri's bastards. He had never thought it would be the queen…

"Rohan and his wife are considered to be martyrs by the Huguenots, even though their followers are the ones who suffer the King's sanctions." Saint-Rémy continued. "Their separatist ambitions caused this conflict, but once they lost the fight, the leaders of the uprising fled, leaving their people to pick up the pieces." Some of the intensity left his face as he paused. "I certainly don't mean to claim that their church is any less trouble than the Cardinal's."

Saint-Rémy's hair fell into his face as he turned his head away, but Treville still had the impression that he was watching him closely as he waited for his reaction. 

"I can't say I disagree," Treville said, making Saint-Rémy look up. He had told Richelieu that he believed in building trust with the Duchesse's family in order to keep them cooperating for as long as possible, and he was beginning to wonder what else might be gained by their trust.

"You'd be surprised how many of my friends at university feel the same way about the church." A soft smile spread across the young man's lips, but this time, Treville did not return it. 

"Be careful who you tell about those friends."

Saint-Rémy paled.

"I— it's just talk. We read some books." The words just stumbled out of the young man's mouth. For a moment, Treville had forgotten how young he was. "I–I still go to mass. I'm not an anarchist!" Saint-Rémy paused as colour returned to his face in the form of a blush. "And I wasn't planning on telling His Eminence any of this."

"The Cardinal isn't who you should worry about," Treville said, "but others might be less lenient." He couldn't help but wonder if the Duchesse had never introduced Saint-Rémy to the royal court because she knew about his friends and their books.

Richelieu took the faithless slightly more serious than the majority of the courtiers who considered them an amusing curiosity to be shamelessly mocked and disregarded. As a cardinal, Richelieu couldn't entirely ignore the existence of such aberrations of faith, but he didn't view them as a threat either. He'd been happy enough to share Treville's bed for years, despite the captain's own agnostic leanings.

"Those who don't believe concern the Cardinal as little as the Huguenots do – as long as they obey His Majesty and pay their taxes." And as long as they didn't gather and arm themselves.

"Shouldn't he be more concerned?" Saint-Rémy sat up. "His power depends on the power of the Church."

Treville snorted. He couldn't help himself. His first instinct was to argue that it was the King who was the source of Richelieu's power. The words lay on his tongue, but he wasn't convinced that, regardless of whatever the young man had picked up from his friends at university, Saint-Rémy was ready for this kind of political cynicism.

"Are you more of a threat to the Church in France than the Protestant nations across Europe are?" Treville asked. "They are numerous and well-organised, and yet the Cardinal would rather align himself with them than with other, Catholic countries."

This made Saint-Rémy sit down again. Apparently, he had never considered Richelieu's foreign policy before. Again, Treville was reminded that Troyes' nephew was barely older than d'Artagnan – and much more sheltered.

"Do you think there'll be another war?" Saint-Rémy asked after a moment of silent contemplation. "Another uprising?"

Treville had to smile at the irony of being questioned about a possible uprising by Saint-Rémy of all people. If the young man was involved in the conspiracy, he had found a rather curious way to probe Treville's opinion.

"No side would gain from it," he said. People so rarely gained from war, but civil war was a special breed of calamity.

The largest part of the population could probably rightfully claim that nothing much would change for them if King Louis were deposed, as long as a war on French soil could be avoided. But the Huguenots stood to lose what little remained to them if Spain installed their favourite on the throne. The Inquisition hunted the protestants on its territory relentlessly. They were imprisoned, tortured and killed for their heresy. In Spain, the so-called Reformation had failed miserably. What pockets of Protestantism remained on Spanish soil practiced their faith in the shadows, terrified of the light, but no less dangerous for it.

Richelieu had always opposed this persecution, claiming that it led only to fear and violence in retaliation. His reasoning being that people who felt safe made for better, more obedient subjects. It was a cool, rational calculation, but if this was how the Cardinal made sense of making peace with the enemies of his faith, Treville wasn't going to argue with the results of that equation as it kept the French Huguenots safe from suffering as their Spanish brothers-in-faith had, Treville's family included.

"The Huguenots have already lost most of their erstwhile privileges," he continued, "including the strongholds they once possessed. And although His Majesty would eventually win the war, it would cost him in money and lives." Two resources King Louis couldn't afford to waste – not with Spain on one border and Austria on the other, both waiting for an opportunity to strike. "If both sides are wise, La Rochelle and the Languedoc will have been the end of it."

Saint-Rémy sighed, his earlier, bright mood long faded. "Then we must hope that both sides learn to be as wise as you are."

Treville looked away, to the residence in the distance. Two unaccounted shipments of Spanish arms made it difficult to believe in a peaceful solution.

  


* * *

  


It was well into the afternoon before they returned to the residence where Treville found Porthos waiting for him. Saint-Rémy offered to take care of both of their horses so Treville could hear the musketeer's report.

"How was the ride?" Porthos asked as they walked away from the stables towards the gardens. 

"Uneventful," Treville said. "Unfortunately, we did not happen upon the missing arms."

"Heard you've been teaching the Sieur a thing or two." 

Treville smiled. "After teaching you lot, I can teach anyone."

They continued to talk about nothing in particular until they reached the empty gardens, where Porthos was free to deliver his report in some privacy. He had just returned from the town with the first daily update, having volunteered to be their messenger for the day. 

"Things are calm at the keep," he said. "It's an impressive site. They really can fit the entire court in there –if the Comtesse de Longpont brings only half of her wardrobe this time." They shared another smile before Porthos turned to more serious matters. "I don't know if the Duchesse's men really believe we're here to prepare a hunt, but they act accommodating enough. I don't think we'll find the Spanish arms at the keep."

"Even so, it will be helpful to have eyes there." Treville sighed. "If the Duchesse is innocent, the King will want his hunt."

Porthos grimaced. "At least our work won't be wasted then." He paused. "How's the Cardinal?"

Treville suppressed another sigh. "Who can tell?"

"He's behaving himself?"

Treville wanted to shrug, and for a moment it looked as though Porthos was going to pat his shoulder.

Richelieu had been perfectly civil and charming to their hosts the previous day, which made his snappishness this morning even more inexplicable, but Treville had suffered his foul moods often enough to know _something_ was amiss.

His barbs had been subtle enough not to upset Saint-Rémy too greatly, and so, rather than trying to call him to order and cause a scene in front of Saint-Rémy, Treville had tried to compensate for the Cardinal's rudeness by being particularly helpful and friendly, which, happily, he found very easy in the young man's company.

But whatever had caused Richelieu's charming mask to crack, he had neglected to tell Treville. Once again it appeared that the Captain was unworthy of sharing the Cardinal's secrets.

Richelieu hadn't even warned him in advance of his intention to search the residence alone last night – unarmed, without a guard.

"Captain?"

Treville tried to concentrate as Porthos continued his report. The missing arms promised to unleash far greater trouble than a churlish Cardinal.

Porthos assured him that Aramis had everything under control at the keep and that the rest of them would be moving on to the nearby inn the following day to continue their investigation into the smugglers' operations.

As soon as Porthos left, Treville made a round of the gardens, hoping to familiarise himself with their layout and to clear his head, but the latter was a vain hope. 

Stopping by the fountain he had spotted from his window last night, Treville looked up at Richelieu's apartments. He wasn't surprised when he saw movement behind one of the Cardinal's windows. So far, and contrary to Treville's expectations, they had been spending even less time in each other's company than during the three months he had deliberately avoided the Cardinal while the musketeers had been trying to convict the Cardinal of attempted regicide.

Was Richelieu hard at work up there? Trying to uncover the truth behind this uprising on his own; leaving Treville and the musketeers to traipse in the dark?

Treville dug his fingernails into his palms.

They should be working together. They should be together now, inspecting the gardens side by side, discussing what they had learned. 

Richelieu should not have ridden back alone. He should have been with him, sitting under that tree, looking at the serene landscape, watching their horses graze.

But Richelieu had elected to keep to himself.

Treville looked up at that set of windows, feeling his stomach turn.

How could he still expect Richelieu to share his plans? After all the lies Richelieu had told concerning the Queen and Milady–concerning the few matters Treville had used to think he could trust Richelieu to be honest about, especially after Savoy… 

It was more likely that Richelieu was going to reveal his secrets to him only in the case that the musketeers threatened to ruin his carefully laid plans through their ignorance.

Swallowing a mouthful of bile, Treville turned away from the windows just as the sound of feet on gravel announced the arrival of the Duchesse.

"Captain. Could you spare me a moment?"

"Of course, Your Grace."

"My nephew told me that he greatly enjoyed your lessons."

Treville allowed himself a brief smile. "As did I. I have already agreed to meet with him again tomorrow."

"I wish to thank you, Captain. When the King made his demands, I was worried about how the court would react to my nephew's glaring inexperience. I am honoured to host His Majesty, but he brings with him a host of cruel tongues."

"Is this why you never brought Saint-Rémy to Paris with you?"

The Duchesse smiled without humour. "He is even less suited to a life at court than he is to leading a royal hunt."

"He will have to deal with the court eventually, once he becomes Duc." The domain of Saint-Rémy was insignificant enough for the court to ignore its Lord, but Troyes was large and wealthy. The King was not going to let the future Duc de Troyes slip entirely out of his sphere of influence – and neither was the Cardinal.

" _If_ he becomes Duc. Unfortunately, Hugo doesn't have much interest in politics." Troyes paused. "Perhaps Gaspard will surprise us with a child before long."

"It would be a shame if your nephew refused. With his extensive knowledge of law, he has the potential to become a better ruler than most of the noblemen at the King's court."

"Being a lord requires more than knowledge and application of laws." he Duchess' joyless expression turned outright bitter. "Particularly if one walks among the jealous snakes of His Majesty's court."

"You are not very fond of the court." Treville was less surprised at the sentiment than the frankness with which she expressed it.

"I was under the impression that neither are you?"

"It is not my world. I am the Captain of the King's Musketeers. I am a soldier and a guard more than I am a politician."

"Pardon me, Captain, but I believe this is where you are wrong – and also why, whenever I am in Paris, I notice that you cut a very solitary figure. A man who doesn't take sides in a place like the royal court will find that no one will take his."

"I am responsible for the King's safety. I am on _his_ side."

"I am sorry; I did not mean to insult you. I merely realised that you are very similar to my nephew in that regard. He wouldn't consider himself a politician or a courtier either. But while you may be happy and successful in your current situation, I do not wish to find out what the court would do to Hugo. You have your wars and battle scars to steel yourself in your principles. Hugo does not."

Treville frowned. "Your nephew has a university education. There are many learned men thriving at court."

"And they are no less vicious than the old nobility. I am sorry, Captain. As you said, the court is not your world, but it is mine, and I must ask you to trust that that I know my nephew better than you do." 

Treville couldn't argue against that and the Duchesse's voice softened.

"You talk up my nephew because you have taken a liking to him. Do not worry, I'm not offended. I like him too, but I don't think the court will. Perhaps I'm wrong, perhaps Hugo will charm our guests at the royal hunt, but I don't expect him to. If your lessons help him not to make a fool of himself, that is more than I could have hoped for two days ago, and I am grateful for it" – a soft smile graced her lips as she continued – "just as André would have been."

Treville wasn't sure what André would have wanted, but he was glad she appreciated his help. "I'm glad I can be of some assistance."

Troyes' smile widened.

"There is one other thing," she said after a moment's contemplation. "I heard your family is from Oloron, but I understand you are not a Protestant?"

Treville snorted in grim amusement. "I'm as much of a Protestant as King Henri was." How strange it was to deny his childhood faith like that. Even though his mother had pushed him towards Catholicism from a young age, he didn't believe his conflicting emotions about either faith would ever entirely disappear.

"You're far from the only one." The Duchesse looked understanding. "And yet you trust Cardinal Richelieu?"

Treville could have echoed Porthos from a few days ago and spoken like a true musketeer: _'I wouldn't trust him if he told me water was wet.'_ But although it might have endeared him to the Duchesse, it would have been counterintuitive to their duty here, and a blatant lie. 

The question shouldn't be whether he trusted the Cardinal, but to what extent. And that was a question far too complex to be answered in a single conversation. There used to be a much simpler answer, but now Treville no longer knew how to explain how he felt about Richelieu even to himself. 

The answer he might have given last night was so different from what he might have said moments before the Duchesse had walked up to him.

"The Cardinal is a remarkable man," he said. "Remarkable men are often complicated to work with."

The Duchesse smirked. "Well-said. I admit I had hoped for a more committed answer, but I should have known not to expect it. You really are a very loyal man, Captain."

Not knowing whether to frown or feel flattered, Treville deflected. "I have absolute trust in Cardinal Richelieu where matters of state are concerned." Treville bit his lips only to avoid biting his tongue.  
Only once the words had left his mouth did he realise that they could not be true. Not after what had almost been done to the Queen. 

What did it say about him that he had still spoken the words without questioning them?

"And concerning other matters?" The Duchesse asked. She couldn't have missed Treville's surprise at his own words.

"He is the King's Frist Minister. He will act in the interest of France." Just the other day, he had seen Richelieu effortlessly put Perales in his place at the ball and think up plans of battle in the Kings study. However, Richelieu hadn't acted like a First Minister this morning, or when he had left Paris without a word two months ago. He still hadn't told Treville why he had returned to his family home, leaving the ship of state to be headed by a council who were still shaken from the recent attempt on the Queen's life, and unable to cope with a King who was growing more paranoid and overprotective of his unborn child with every day.

If Richelieu could no longer be trusted to act in His Majesty's interests, then _what_ was he? And what was Treville supposed to do about it?

There was a nagging voice that told Treville that he knew exactly what was expected of him. It involved a carefully aimed pistol or, alternatively, an axe and a heavy wooden block.

"There are many Huguenots living in this duché, who are worried about His Eminence's policies regarding them and the local fortifications," Troyes continued. "Now that he is my visitor, their concerns over their safety might grow, particularly if they see me giving in to his demands regarding the keep."

Treville could feel his spine trickle. The Duchesse's concerns sounded uncomfortably similar to the thoughts Richelieu had uttered about the Huguenots in the King's study two days ago.

"I don't think anyone can convince the Cardinal to abandon his plans for the keep," he said. "And with good reason. The King doesn't need fortifications so far from his borders to defend his kingdom, but they pose a risk should they ever fall into enemy hands." At least Richelieu and he could still agree on this point.

The Duchesse frowned. "His Majesty may have no need of them, but you, Captain, should know best why the Huguenots here have little reason to believe that His Majesty cares for their protection. I know what battles you fought in as well as my nephew. I also know your reputation as a man of honour. You can't stand the court, because you can't stand intrigue. It is why I trust your judgement of the Cardinal's character."

Treville hardly dared to move a muscle in his face as he listened to her assessment of his reputation. So many men and women who had equally thought him a paragon of honour were now dead, exiled, or imprisoned, because they had been taken in by the image of the man they had wanted to see. Marie de Medici had not been the first or last, merely the most prominent of them.

It was not a fact he was proud of, but at some point during his life at court, Treville's honour had become as much of a tool in the service of his sovereign as his sword.

"The potential loss of the keep frightens the Huguenots," Troyes explained. "And, to be frank, it's not just the Huguenots. Without the keep, Troyes would not be as wealthy and safe as it is today. France might be at relative peace – for now – but it doesn't take prophetic talent to see what lies ahead." 

"Which is why His Majesty has been reinforcing fortifications along our borders."

"It is not only our foreign adversaries the people are afraid of. The last wars have unleashed many horrors upon the country and even though Troyes has mercifully been spared most of the fighting, even _we_ have had our fair share of troubles with dissatisfied mercenaries or bands of deserters turned brigands."

She paused, looking into the distance.

"The people here have yet to believe in this domestic peace His Majesty is resting his new policies on. It is hard for them to believe that His Majesty can keep them safe when they see that even within His Majesty's borders, well-secured as they may be, even the First Minister travels under heavy guard."

Treville furled his brow. There were many reasons for Richelieu never to travel without his Red Guards, and one of them was why they had come to Troyes. Yet, he couldn't help but think of the Spanish ambassador who had mockingly congratulated Richelieu on the roads of France not being quite as infested by bandits as he had been warned. And had Treville's musketeers not themselves been able to easily make the smugglers they had intercepted believe they were brigands?

The years of domestic peace France had enjoyed between the end of the War of Religion that had raged for decade and the Queen Mother's uprising against her son had been far too short to let the people of France come to rest. And then the Huguenots had risen up. 

It had to appear like madness to the common Frenchmen that they were expected to no longer rely for protection on the fortresses and city walls Richelieu intended to raze. Cardinal and King still had a lot of work ahead of them before France was as pacified as they intended and the wounds of the previous conflicts were healed – and that was _if_ they managed to avoid any new uprisings or acts of war.

"Everyone in Troyes knows about His Eminence's intentions for the keep," Troyes continued. "They cannot imagine that they won't someday need its protection again, whether it is against foreign enemies or domestic. And I don't have to point out to you of all people why the Huguenots are even more reluctant to believe in this peace than most." 

"What do you suggest, your Grace?"

"A personal reassurance from the First Minister that he has heard their fears and is acting to keep them safe might help to convince my Huguenot subjects that he has not come here because he is planning to attack them."

"After the fall of La Rochelle Richelieu proposed and supported the protection of their religious practices as part of the King's Edict of Grace. He knows that there can be no peace in France as long as a part of its populace fears for its very existence." Treville paused. "He is not unreasonable in that regard. You should take any concerns you have about this matter to him. He may consider them."

Particularly if those concerns were the key to smoking out this uprising.

Treville didn't want Richelieu to be right about the Huguenot's involvement in this affair, but they appeared to be the most likely suspects at the moment, as the Duchesse's family had – as yet – reacted with nothing but trust and hospitality to the invasion of their summer home.

"Thank you, Captain. I was planning to, tonight, but I wished to hear your opinion first." Troyes sighed. "It is a strange world that His Eminence intends us to live in that doesn't require a Duchesse to defend her own keep. I'm afraid it's not just the Huguenots who wonder what their role is going to be in this new age."

Treville grimaced. "I don't know what this age is going to bring, but I believe it is going to have more uses for magistrates versed in common law than royal huntmasters."


	7. Chapter 7

When they sat down for dinner that night, it quickly became apparent that the Cardinal's mood had not improved since the morning. His conversation was as witty as the evening before, but certain topics sharpened his words to a knife-edge.

When Treville assured Troyes that the musketeers had made progress taking stock of the goods in her cellar, Richelieu remarked that the Duchesse should be thankful that his secretary was overseeing the musketeers' work or else her wine barrels would be empty by now.

"They are going to have a list of what you still need to order by tomorrow." Treville tried his best to sound light-hearted. "There is no danger to your wine before the court arrives," he said and Troyes laughed politely at the joke as any good hostess would have. 

"I presume then that Monsieur Athos is not in charge of the wine?"

"No." Treville met the Cardinal's enquiring look with a calm expression. At his side, he could sense Porthos stiffen, but, thankfully, the musketeer was too wise to react to the insult to his friend in more obvious ways.

"Wise choice," the Cardinal said.

Treville had to suppress a sigh of relief when the Duchesses steered the conversation towards her family's vineyards. Leaning back in his seat, Treville closed his eyes as he mentally prepared himself for a long, _long_ evening.

Saint-Rémy soon brought up their training session, bestowing the highest praise upon his teacher. He meant well, but Treville found himself unable to enjoy the conversation, as he kept expecting Richelieu to voice a veiled comment telling Treville exactly how much he disapproved of his teaching.

"There is still a fortnight for you to improve," the Cardinal said when Saint-Rémy voiced doubts that even Treville's excellent advice could prepare him to lead the royal hunt. 

"It might just be enough time for a young man with of your capabilities." Richelieu's voice was sweet but Treville was beginning to lose his appetite. 

All day, Richelieu had made no secret of how little he thought of Treville's plan to win Saint-Rémy's trust, and it appeared he would continue to be unhelpful.

At least no one else appeared to be picking up on Richelieu's sarcasm. Saint-Rémy even thanked the Cardinal politely before the conversation moved on. 

"Captain."

Treville avoided looking at Richelieu as Saint-Rémy turned towards him. "Would you like to come to Troyes tomorrow to see the horses we're going to bring here for the hunt?"

Treville was just about to agree when Richelieu put down his cup to announce that he was feeling tired. 

Troyes raised her hand to bid him stay. "Please, Your Eminence, there is just one more matter before you go."

"Is there?"

The Duchesse threw Treville a look. It didn't take a lot to realise that the _'matter'_ the Duchesse wanted to discuss was related to the concerns she had raised about the Huguenots earlier that day in the gardens. Treville tried to catch the Cardinal's eye, to convey with a look how important the Duchesse's request was. Unfortunately, Richelieu was looking anywhere but at him.

"Just have one more glass of wine. I am certain it won't take long. Once you hear—"

But Richelieu had already stood up and Treville felt a wave of frustration wash over him.

"Cardinal—"

"I am afraid I still have a lot of work to attend to tonight."

"Please." The Duchesse stood up as well. "I was thinking, now that you have seen the grounds, would you agree to accompany me to the town tomorrow? The local guild masters would be honoured to receive you."

"Perhaps another time." Richelieu bowed. "When I am no longer occupied with this hunt. Perhaps the Captain will oblige you in the meantime?" 

He waved at his guards who accompanied him out the door. Stunned silence followed them.

The Duchesse sat down again. She was too well composed to reach for her cup. Treville turned towards her, ready to apologise for the Cardinal, but he stopped when he saw her stony expression. He felt sorry for having told her that Richelieu was reasonable.

He could feel Saint-Rémy's eyes on him as he finished his drink and wished for something stronger than wine. 

"Is there anything I can do to help with this matter you wanted to discuss with the Cardinal?"

The Duchesse raised her head. "I had planned to invite him to meet with some local representatives – guildsmen and aldermen. As soon as they heard he was coming here, they expressed a desire to meet with him."

"Would they agree to meet with me instead?"

The Duchesse shook her head. "I was hoping a personal audience with the First Minister would allay the fears of my protestant subjects regarding the keep…" 

When Treville stood, he felt the wine settle in his belly heavy and hot like a ball of molten lead. Or perhaps it was the disappointment he had felt as Richelieu had belittled Saint-Rémy at the shooting range, or the frustration he had tasted as he had walked in the gardens alone. Whatever it was had been building up for a while.

"I will explain the situation to him," he said. He didn't wait for a reply before he rushed out of the hall and was halfway up the stairs that would take him to his and Richelieu's apartments before he became aware that Porthos was following right behind him.

Treville stopped.

"You told us to behave," Porthos said, "because the Cardinal is our ally. Doesn't look like the Cardinal is aware of that."

"I can salvage this." Treville looked down the hall that lead to Richelieu's apartments. The previous night he hadn't dared to enter there for fear of what he might do. "If I can convince him to meet the town's representatives with me..."

Porthos didn't say anything, but his silence sounded worried. 

"He is the First Minister."

"Didn't seem to care about that much when he left, did he? Or when he did what he did to the Queen."

Treville gritted his teeth. "He needs to be reminded of his duties."

"But why has it got to be you who reminds him?"

Treville moved down the hall without replying. The pair of Red Guards standing guard in front of the Cardinal's rooms were throwing glances at him.

"Do you want me to wait outside, Captain?" Porthos asked.

"No."

"Just don't kill him. You said we need him."

Treville stopped as he took in the musketeer's grave face. He had to look angry enough to commit murder.

"We'll see about that."

The Red Guards, for once, did not protest his right to see the Cardinal as he bore down on them.

Throwing open the door, he found Richelieu sitting at his narrow, portable desk in his antechamber, writing by the light of a set of silver candlesticks. The very nervous looking secretary hovering over his shoulder immediately looked up when Treville entered. 

"Captain Treville—"

"Out."

The secretary put up even less of a fight than the guards. He was halfway through the room before an icy look from the Cardinal put a stop to his hasty escape. 

"I do not remember giving you permission to give orders to my staff, Captain."

Treville turned towards the secretary without giving the Cardinal another look.

"Out!" Taking the man by the arm, he shoved him towards the door. 

A chair scratching over the polished wood of the floor warned Treville that Richelieu had gotten up from behind his desk, but he kept his hold on the secretary's upper arm until they had reached the door and the other man fled outside. 

Shutting the door behind him with some force, not caring who heard the bang, Treville whirled around to find Richelieu standing in front of him. With his chest heaving in anger, the Cardinal looked like murder – but so did Treville. 

"You had no right to do that," Richelieu hissed, pointing his finger at Treville's face. "Get out before I call my guards."

Treville advanced until they stood face to face. "I should have my musketeers arrest you for threatening this entire investigation," he barked. "The Duchesse was going to invite you to meet with representatives of her Protestant subjects, but you would not let her speak in her own dining hall."

"If her subjects have any grievances, they should take them to their lady. She can relate them to the King."

Treville stomped towards the desk, putting it between Richelieu and himself. He slapped the desktop so hard the candlesticks jumped, spraying whatever document the Cardinal had been working on with hot wax.

"These are the people who could be responsible for this entire affair. They are frightened of your policies, and you have just refused to listen to them!"

"Are you suggesting I should meet with a pack of Huguenot rebels in the middle of nowhere? On the advice of a traitor?"

"We don't know if the Duchesse is a traitor!"

"How can you be sure she isn't?"

"I am not playing any of your games! If there is anything you know about our situation that you have been keeping to yourself, you will tell me, _now_!"

Richelieu, standing in the middle of the room, calmly clasped his hands. "So you can tell your new friend Saint-Rémy about it? Or the Duchesse?"

Treville almost choked on his spit as he swallowed. "Have you already forgotten what I told you last night? Were you even listening?"

"Please," Richelieu snorted. "Is this truly about winning Saint-Rémy's trust? Or is he winning _you_ over with his little act?" 

"What act?" 

Richelieu's lips twitched. " _The great Captain Treville._ You enjoy being worshipped quite a lot for someone who wrinkles his nose at simple court politics."

Treville bared his teeth in a joyless grin. "Oh, here we go." 

"Did it never occur to you that his hero-worship is an act to lure you in?"

"Are you going to tell me how this _boy_ who didn't know how to aim a gun this morning smuggled at least two waggon-loads of Spanish weaponry into Troyes?"

"You rewarded his pretence of helplessness rather nicely," Richelieu spat. "He would have learned just as well without your embrace."

"How dare you!" This time, when Treville hit the desk, something fell off. "He is just a boy – André's son!"

"He is using you!"

"Not every man in France is a scheming bastard like you!"

For a moment, Richelieu stood still, his face white with anger. In the silence that his yelling left behind, Treville could hear his own heartbeat.

Richelieu cleared his throat. His voice was rough and low. "I would be dead without my despicable scheming."

He left his words to hang in silence for a moment, before he pointed toward the door, stabbing the air with his finger.

"They – nobles and commoners! _They_ don’t know what waits out there: An empire waiting to tear us apart. "

"You are sabotaging the King's investigation," Treville said.

"I sent Marie de Medici into exile! I raised the money to end the Huguenot rebellion. I made our allies a bulwark against Habsburg domination. And any time I turn my back to the courtiers to face their enemies, they sharpen their knives! They are doing our enemy's work, accepting Spanish arms to gain one more keep, an acre more of land! Anyone in this house could be one of these traitors and I will not sit and drink their wine and watch _you_ make idle conversation as they continue to plot against me!"

Treville whirled around, indicating the entire residence with a sweep of his hand.

"We don't know if anyone here is connected to a coup! You are destroying our chances to find whoever is behind this. Meet with the townsmen—"

"You understand nothing!"

"How can I?" Treville threw his hands up. "You never tell me _anything_ unless it suits you!"

Richelieu snorted. "Oh. I remember how _you_ told me about how you let Marie's grandson and his mother go – conveniently after they had already eluded my Red Guards."

"You would have killed an innocent child without need!"

"We don't know what will become of that boy! It was reckless to let him escape! You had no right to take that decision alone!"

"You constantly take your decisions alone!"

"Because I have to! There is no one else to take these decisions!"

Treville reeled back as if punched.

_You had me_ , he wanted to say. _You had me!_ But the words stuck in his throat.

"Anything _I_ did pales in comparison to what _you_ do," he spat. "You played with the lives of our King and Queen, and of my musketeers, without telling me. Without any warning. And then you hid, until the King begged you to come back so you can do it all again!"

"I returned when I was needed," Richelieu snapped, "despite the ingratitude that I knew awaited me – including yours."

"So what are you doing here? Why did you come back?" 

"Why I—" Richelieu took a step back. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Whatever he had expected Treville to say, this was not it.

Treville seized his chance. "Why do you risk your life for an ungrateful court?" he asked. "Why did you travel to the home of a suspected rebel without protest? Without a plan?"

Richelieu bit his lips, looked away. "I am not immune to pride," he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Or fear."

"Fear? Is that why you wasted no time making new enemies here? "

"You understand nothing." Richelieu paced towards him, grey eyes flashing – and stopped. "What did you think I was doing at Richelieu?"

Treville threw up his hands. "I don't know! Tell me! Just tell me _one_ thing!"

Richelieu met his glare without flinching. "I should not have returned," he said. As he turned away, he threw out his hand to catch the nearest wall for support. 

Treville had no sympathy for his theatrics. "I lied to protect you! I lied for you! I lied to my own men! To my King!"

To think how close he had come, last night, to making such a terrible mistake.

All because Richelieu had looked so beautiful in the pale moonlight. So vulnerable.

His Armand.

What a great actor he was. And what a terrible beast.

There was nothing beautiful about him now. There was only the beast. 

" _I_ have been protecting _myself_ since I entered His Majesty's service!" Richelieu's teeth showed as he snarled. "Do you truly think I employ a network of spies, having them read every letter that passes through any courtier's hands, out of anything other than necessity? Do you truly think I care about their petty fights with their neighbours or their sordid affairs with their married lovers? They whine about the most trivial ailments while I suffer to keep them free from Spanish rule. _They_ are my assassins. _They_ are the usurpers." 

"You didn't have to return!"

Treville had the pleasure of seeing the Cardinal shut up. Staring. Speechless.

"You didn't need to return to this life if it tortures you this much. Retire. Be safe. Lay down your offices, and return to the Vatican like Sestini suggested." His hand shook as he pointed at the door. "Go back to Sestini." At least one of them would be happy then. _And_ the musketeers. "Your _friend_ is waiting."

Treville's heart jumped as he saw Richelieu sag. The Cardinal's shoulders slumped; his gaze faltered.

"You're still jealous," Richelieu said. He sounded so quiet. So hoarse. "He's dead. He's dead and you're still jealous."

Treville stumbled backwards, against the desk. Inkwell and candlesticks hit the floor with a clang of metal and glass. The flames snuffed out immediately. 

"He's dead?"

Richelieu did not reply. He was staring at the floor, trembling. 

"Sestini is dead? Luca Sestini? Since when?"

It could not be. Someone would have told His Majesty if the voice behind the pamphlets directed against him had fallen silent. The King would have gloated about how the annoying little man had passed away to the entire court and quietly, ignobly, Treville would have shared His Majesty's petty joy.

"Luca was the assassin."

"He—" Treville couldn't breathe.

Luca was the assassin.

Luca Sestini.

Treville searched the Cardinal's face for any indication that he was telling anything other than the truth, but he had trouble seeing through the haze that had appeared in front of his eyes.

_Luca Sestini._

"He…"

The words stuck in Treville's throat. He had warned Richelieu not to trust the monk, but he had never truly believed that Sestini had been the one to poison Richelieu. His warning had been based on nothing but a hunch that had grown as much out of the desire to not having to watch Richelieu murder the Comtesse de Larroque for her money as the simple desire to see Sestini hang.

He had never truly _wanted_ this man who had claimed to be the Cardinal's friend to betray Richelieu. Not when there were so few people who could be trusted to care for the man behind the Cardinal's courtly masks. Not when the people who wished to harm Richelieu so greatly outnumbered everyone else in the Cardinal's life.

But now—

Now—

_Luca was the assassin._

But that meant—

Treville stepped forward, instinctively taking the Cardinal's hand.

"How do you know that?"

"Since his poison failed to work as intended, he returned the next morning to murder me in my bed." Richelieu's expression hardened. "He tried to stab me when your musketeers intervened."

"The musketeers—?"

Treville let go of Richelieu, stepping back. 

"You _knew_ Sestini was the assassin and you still had the Comtesse executed? You burned an innocent woman!"

"She's alive," Richelieu said. "The Comtesse is alive. I burned Sestini's corpse in her stead, but since the Comtesse is still the only part of this affair that you seem to care about, you might as well know that now."

"You—" Treville stared at him.

The Comtesse was alive.

Sestini was dead.

"How?"

"She is dead in the eyes of the world and I intend to keep it this way," Richelieu said. His voice was as cold as his gaze. "I have a talent for making people disappear. You have unfavourably remarked on it in the past."

"You never said anything." Treville swallowed. He was feeling hot again.

"I am surprised your musketeers managed to keep silent this long."

"Why did you never tell me Sestini tried to kill you?" He had hated the monk, but he had never wanted this. Sestini and Richelieu had been friends… even lovers at one time. And yet Richelieu had decided to carry the knowledge of what his friend, his lover, had done to him locked up with his other secrets, _alone_ , for months.

"You were so enjoying being righteous and making accusations."

Treville shook his head. They had wasted so much time fighting over Sestini and Ninon.

Sestini had tried to _kill_ Richelieu.

"You should not have kept this to yourself!"

"He is dead, and the Comtesse is alive. It is no longer of any importance."

"He tried to kill you!"

"So now that it is no longer of consequence you finally care? I was almost killed _twice_ , but if you wonder why I decided not to let you know it is because you were too concerned about your wounded _honour_ to consider anything I had to say on the matter."

Treville grabbed Richelieu's shoulders with both hands – and immediately let go. 

He stepped back, glancing at the wall behind Richelieu; at the ceiling; at the floor. The palms of his hands burned. There was something stuck in his throat – words that came half a year too late.

"I'm sorry. Were you hurt?" 

"As hurt as one can be when one is betrayed by his lover." The Cardinal flashed his teeth in a joyless grin. "Fortunately, I have since had occasion to grow accustomed to the feeling."

Treville stared at Richelieu, standing still when all he wanted to do was to make the papers fly off the desk. He swallowed. "Do you think that I took this decision lightly? Do you think that it was easy to stand by and watch the musketeers try to find a reason to arrest you?" 

For months he had lived every day in dread of the moment that he would be ordered to lead Richelieu to the executioner's block.

All because Richelieu had lied to him. Because Richelieu had kept silent about his plans for the Queen until it had been too late to stop him.

"Do you think _I_ contemplate regicide lightly?"

Treville growled. "You lied to me! For days! You sent an assassin after the Queen! After my musketeers! You framed our _ally_!"

"And the Queen outwitted me!" Richelieu advanced, pointing at Treville's chest. "With your help!" He broke away, stalking across the room. "For the past months I have lived in expectation of her retribution!" Richelieu stopped. Standing still, he closed his eyes. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed in a visible effort to rein in his voice. 

"But it never came. _You_ never came." Richelieu pressed the words out between barred teeth. "You couldn't even do that," he hissed. "Brave Captain Treville. So quick to risk his life in battle. The most honourable man at court. So reliable. But you couldn't even make a clean end of it. At least Luca was man enough to try."

"You bastard! You bastard!" Treville advanced. Richelieu glared at him, jaw clenched.

"I argued your case before the Queen. I told her we needed you; that the King would take your side –and you _ran away_! You were gone for two months and you didn't say a word!" 

"You are the one who ran away," Richelieu spat. "You are too cowardly to accept that _this_ " – he indicated himself – "is what you have always loved, all these years. The games. The intrigue. The lies that I told so that you could rest easy at night."

Richelieu's voice shook. "You love the games and the lies because you _know_ they are necessary." Although the Cardinal's words dripped with venom, he was retreating. He walked backwards until his back hit the wall. He didn't even seem to notice that he nearly bumped his head against the lamp hanging there as he watched Treville come closer. 

"Almost killing our Queen over nothing was necessary?"

"Your King, your precious Queen, your musketeers – they are nothing without my work. _I_ keep this country running – and you know it!"

Treville roared, pushing forward until they were inches apart. " _You_ would not be here without my musketeers or His Majesty!" 

"I am here because I must!" Richelieu hissed. "I quite literally do not enjoy staying in my enemy's home!"

"Then leave!"

"I cannot leave! I cannot _be_ anywhere else!"

They were standing so close Treville could see Richelieu's throat move as the Cardinal swallowed. He saw the Cardinal's lips, bitten red, parting to reveal a white flash of teeth as he spoke.

"You lecture me about your precious honour. But my life is tied to my position. I have to fear every day that I might displease His Majesty. There isn't a nobleman in the entirety of France who wouldn't rush to have a hand in my disgrace. With every day that passes, with every decision I take, I choose the means to make the most of each day that is granted to me. I have not slept through a single night in weeks as I wait to be repaid for a life of service with a knife in the dark by your precious King and Queen."

Richelieu's fingers bumped against Treville's chest as he gestured wildly.

"You, too, would be wise to remind your King and Queen from time to time what it would cost them to lose your services."

Treville closed his eyes. "I will not abandon them just to see if they will beg me to come back."

"They will not remember your loyalty unless you remind them."

"They don't have to! They are my King and Queen. I swore an oath to serve them."

"They will not thank you for it. They will not know your worth until they sell you!" Richelieu flashed his teeth. "If King Louis is allowed to think, even for a moment, that he is capable of ruling without me, he will write to his brother-in-law again, bargaining away half of his kingdom on the sentimental advice of his Spanish wife. And you would be his messenger. Against all advice. Against all reason!"

Treville winced. They had never spoken about the Spanish letters. "I cannot refuse a direct order from the King. I will not—"

But Richelieu wasn't finished yet. "He would break with Sweden and crawl before Rome and our Most Catholic neighbour out of fear a Catholic will do to him what the Huguenot did to his father!"

"Stop!" Treville took hold of Richelieu's arms. "You are talking madness! The King adores you!"

"The King's adoration is not an unbreakable shield. Do you really think that when His Majesty will not be looking for someone to blame once he stops liking the consequences of the bad decisions you helped him make? Unless you take the precaution to make yourself irreplaceable, he is going to use you until he decides you can serve him better in death!"

Treville dropped his hands. "I won't listen to this!"

Richelieu closed his mouth and swallowed. For a moment, the room was silent. For a moment, all Treville could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.

"Do it then!" Richelieu spat. "Go!" He pointed towards the door. The thin smile on the Cardinal's lips tried to imitate confidence, but his voice shook more violently with every word. His eyes looked like glass in the lamplight. "Run away again. Follow your orders and dine with our assassins. I survived Marie. I survived Gaston and Luca. I did not need them. I don't need _you_!" 

Treville stood close enough to know the glassy look in the Cardinal's eyes for what it was, despite the darkness. For the past few months it had been so much easier to remember his anger at Richelieu's recklessness than it had been to remember the many times Richelieu had turned to him, trembling, afraid of the morrow – not just on the night that he had believed Treville had come to deliver him to the King's justice.

That Richelieu had even been able to imagine such a thing.

That he should dare to compare Treville to Sestini or the Medici. 

Sestini had tried to kill Richelieu.

And nobody had told Treville.

"Go," Richelieu said. 

Treville growled. He should be leaving. He should say ' _yes_ ' and obey. He should go back to the dining hall and have another cup of wine, safe in the knowledge that if Troyes intended to murder anyone tonight, she was going to save all her poison for the Cardinal.

"Just go. If the insurgents kill me, you will finally be free of me. Just _pray_ that your precious Queen never forgets your worth."

Treville shook his head. "I never—"

"Go," Richelieu repeated. His voice had become brittle. He swallowed again, licked his lips, but nothing seemed to strengthen his voice. "I don't deserve your loyalty. You have made that very clear."

Treville growled again. He should be leaving, but Richelieu was standing with his back against the wall, staring at him, all wide-eyed and pale-faced, breathing fast.

How could Richelieu's poise fool him for days?

_It does not appear that your stay in the countryside did much to improve your health,_ Perales had said. Treville had spent so much time that evening looking at Richelieu, but he had refused to _see_ — because seeing was dangerous, when Treville had so much wanted to continue feeling hurt and angry.

But now Treville looked closely and _saw_. He saw the shadows under Richelieu's eyes, the pale skin stretched over hollow cheeks. Treville _looked_ until Richelieu started to blink and his lashes came away wet. 

They had separated all those months ago for many reasons. Reasons that still held true. 

"I will answer to God for what I have done when my assassins succeed," Richelieu croaked. "To no one else."

Their separation had never been about anger, or hate, or love. Love hadn't been considered when Richelieu had decided to murder their Queen. Love hadn't been asked when Treville had decided to walk away.

There had been disappointment for certain. Grief, even…

"Just go."

Treville couldn't say _yes_ and walk away again, but he could not stay either, because—

_Because…_

"Run." Richelieu's voice shook almost as much as his body as the tears ran down his cheeks.

Treville closed his eyes. He leaned forward until his forehead touched Richelieu's and he could hear his own heart beat loudly in his chest.

One of the reasons Richelieu could not and would not ever abandon his offices, even when he imagined himself alone in a den of lions was that he was too much like Treville. Too stubborn to give up. And too principled to give in. Richelieu's sense of duty was a twisted, dangerous thing, but it was just as strong as Treville's.

"I hate how you do this." Treville sighed. He didn't want to call a victory for the Cardinal. Not while Richelieu was crying.

He hated Richelieu's secrets and he hated his own weakness. But most of all he hated that he was unable to take a straight order from the Cardinal when it would be the wisest thing to do.

"If you had just told me about the Queen before you took action…" But it was useless to contemplate _what ifs_. "Why won't you trust me?" he mumbled.

Richelieu expelled a shaky breath, and Treville felt it hot against his lips.

"Do it," Richelieu whispered.

Treville leaned in. His heart jumped into his throat as their lips touched. 

He pressed in close, with his mouth, with his hips, until he could feel Richelieu press back against him. 

Richelieu's arms snaked around him. His hands pulled at his shoulders, stroked his neck, his hair. The touch made Treville's scalp prickle. 

It had been almost half a year… half a year without Richelieu's hands clutching at his shoulders, without Richelieu's fingers in his hair, on his cheeks, at his neck – hands touching every bit of skin they could reach.

Treville moaned against Richelieu's lips and was rewarded by the Cardinal slipping his tongue into his mouth.

How Treville had missed the urgency of Richelieu's kisses. They stole his breath as they reminded him of how, after all this time, after all these years, this great man, the most powerful man in France – this terrible beast – still desired him.

The hands clutching at Treville's shoulders had written letters that decided the fate of nations. The tongue and lips claiming his mouth had decided between war and peace.

Treville kissed back. It was all he needed to do to render those lips pliant and to cause the hand in his hair to slacken. Hot breath ghosted over his skin as he pulled away to lick a line along Richelieu's jaw to his earlobe. The Cardinal gasped as he bit down.

Half a year since Treville had last heard that sound.

Half a year of isolation. For what?

Cupping Richelieu's face with both of his hands, he could feel the trails that his tears had left behind.

Treville broke off, stepped back, and Richelieu, still caught up in the moment, followed him, collapsing against him. 

The whine that escaped Richelieu's throat when he realised that Treville had broken off in earnest was heart-rending. Red-eyed and flushed, he didn't look anything like the fearsome First Minister anymore.

It had to be exhausting to live in fear for so long. How could Treville have expected him to have any trust left to spare for the Duchesse's family?

"Jean?"

Treville dropped his hands to his sides, unsure of what to say. "I need—" He made the mistake of licking his lips. He could still taste their kiss – a kind of comfort he was far more at ease with than words.

He sighed. "I can't do this."

Richelieu's shoulders slumped and Treville cursed his lack of eloquence.

"This isn't what I meant, I…" he hesitated; tried again: "What I meant—"

"I told you to leave," Richelieu whispered. His voice sounded rough, as though it took him great effort to speak. "Of course, you must think of your men. And _the Queen._ —" He broke off and Treville hated himself more for every word on his tongue that he could not get out. 

"I don't _want_ to leave! I _cannot_ leave until you tell me the truth." He swallowed. "Please." He touched Richelieu's shoulders. "Please. Why did you never tell me about Sestini?"

Richelieu closed his eyes and Treville's felt his stomach drop. His limbs, his insides, his heart, all felt as heavy as lead.

"Why can't you tell me?"

He watched Richelieu lean back against the wall and sigh.

"I was angry."

"At me?"

Richelieu looked away and Treville felt his heart beat faster. By now he knew he had to wait for Richelieu to talk, but he was too tense to be patient after the frustrations of the evening, followed by _that_ kiss. He wanted to take hold of Richelieu and give him what he needed, but he also wanted to _understand_.

Slowly, reluctantly, Richelieu lifted his gaze. "I was angry at myself for falling for Luca's lies."

"About the Comtesse?"

Richelieu shook his head softly. "He spoke of the seminary a lot. He brought me gifts – to invite me back into the Holy Father's flock. He spoke of our past; of anything but business, until I reminded him to speak of what I thought the Pope had sent him to me for." 

Richelieu turned his head away, but Treville still caught him blinking sharply. 

"I was a fool to believe—" He broke off. He didn't need to continue.

"What? You wanted to believe that he still cared for you?"

Richelieu said nothing, but he closed his eyes again, and Treville knew that if he looked down, he would see the Cardinal's hands tremble.

Richelieu was wont to claim that it didn't bother him that he was feared rather than loved by the people, but he was still human. The way he had poured himself into their kiss would have been sufficient proof of that if Treville had needed any.

"You pretended to have killed the Comtesse, knowing that I would be angry with you, rather than tell me this?"

Richelieu took a shaky breath. "I foolishly presumed Luca would look past my sins." He raised his head. "It will make you happy to hear that you were right all along. He never loved me."

"I never—" Treville broke off. He had already made enough accusations tonight. Slowly, gently, he brushed Richelieu's cheek.

He wished the Cardinal's expression were less uncertain, less guarded.

"You know I'm not him?" His chest constricted as Richelieu looked away. "You know I don't want any harm to befall you."

" _You_ are infuriating," Richelieu said. There was no power left in his voice. No venom. No bitterness. Nothing. He brushed away the hand at his cheek and held it in front of his chest in both of his. "It won't happen again. I don't believe there are any old acquaintances of mine left to try me."

Treville put his free hand against the wall next to Richelieu's head, leaning closer until the Cardinal looked at him, eyes full of tears.

He could see Richelieu's gaze wander from his eyes to his lips. He could feel the Cardinal's hand on his chest, could feel him lean in.

Treville could have kissed him again, but they were not done yet. He needed to wait. Richelieu had preferred to suffer Treville's contempt than to let on how deeply hurt and humiliated he felt by Sestini's betrayal.

"I need to know that you trust me."

Richelieu blinked, and Treville's heart sank as he saw him hesitate.

He freed his hand from the Cardinal's fingers, ready to pull away. 

"Don't go." Richelieu's voice was almost too soft to hear. He cleared his throat. "Stay." He was clutching Treville's arm with one white-knuckled hand. The other was still splayed across Treville's chest. 

"I missed you." 

On an evening filled with revelations, nothing surprised Treville as much as hearing Richelieu actually say these words.

"Please."

Treville tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. It was not often that he heard Richelieu speak so earnestly, without a hint of sarcasm.

"I missed you as well," he said.

Richelieu drew a sharp a breath. "You hid that very well."

"You know why." Treville sighed. "I can't do this if we are just going to end up in the same position someday because we can't trust each other."

Richelieu's lips twisted into a bitter-sweet smile. "I want to."

"But you can't?"

Richelieu was standing still, his hands frozen on Treville's arm and chest. His touch was no more noticeable than that of a spider. Only his eyes moved, flitting from Treville's face to the floor, to the hand on Treville's chest. He had trouble meeting Treville's eyes. 

"I _want_ to."

Treville breathed in deeply. He could feel the fingers on his chest curl up and placed a hand on top of them. They felt cold.

"You could try," he said.

Richelieu exhaled sharply. "I am afraid I am not sure how." He paused, as fresh tears wetted his cheeks, preventing him from speaking clearly for a moment. "It is not my strongest suit, as you know."

Treville took the hand on his arm to pull Richelieu closer and felt him tremble as their fingers intertwined.

"Will you accompany the Duchesse to meet with her subjects?" he asked.

Richelieu lifted his eyes and for a moment Treville forgot to breathe. Richelieu's eyes looked so wide, so dark, so open.

"Will you come with me?" Richelieu asked.

"Of course."

Richelieu took a shaky breath. "Then I will go."

Treville felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. Leaning in, he kissed the Cardinal's tear-stained cheeks.

"I will allow no harm to come to you while I am there," he said, pressing their foreheads together.

Richelieu wiped at his wet cheeks. "I know." He put his hands back on Treville's chest, feeling the leather of his armour, the ornamented metal loops holding his buff coat closed.

"Stay, please," he whispered. "Stay with me tonight."

Treville's swallowed. He searched Richelieu's face for a hint of uncertainty, the slightest hesitation. The lamplight reflected golden on the wet trails on his cheeks, but there was nothing hesitant about the silent plea in the Cardinal's eyes.

"Are you sure?"

A cool hand in his neck guided Treville back towards Richelieu's mouth. He could feel the Cardinal smile into their kiss as Treville's world shrank down to that eager mouth, and the feeling of Richelieu's body pressing against his, trapped between him and the wall.

_Half a year._

Richelieu threw his arms around him, needing him closer.

_Half a year._

Treville's lips parted to admit Richelieu's tongue.

_It was over now._


	8. Chapter 8

When Richelieu first awoke, his mind still in the grasp of sleep, the faint light entering through the windows opposite his bed puzzled him. He was almost conscious enough to realise that he must have slept until dawn for the first time in months. The realisation would have been enough to startle him into full wakefulness, but the warm lips that kissed his forehead and the soft touch in his hair convinced him to go back to sleep.

When he woke again for the second time, blinking and bathed in rays of morning sunlight, it dawned on him that for the first time in months the spectres of his past had been silent for the entire night, kept at bay by the warm body of the soldier at his side. 

Richelieu hadn't meant to fall asleep at all that night with Treville finally back in his arms, but despite his aspirations, he was only human. He had been feeling sated and safe and his body had been aching from the exertions of the night, and so it hadn't taken long until he had fallen asleep in Treville's embrace.

But when Richelieu rolled over in his bed, he found no one lying beside him.

He sat up to sweep his gaze from one side of the bedroom to the other, but he was alone. 

Richelieu wiped his eyes. He hadn't dreamt what had happened last night. His mind might have fooled him, but his body remembered. Treville had been with him. He could still feel the traces of their tryst in his sore muscles. They had been apart for far too long.

Treville had been here, and now he was gone. 

Heart racing, Richelieu slid towards the edge of the bed. Peering over the side revealed no pile of discarded clothes, but he could see that someone had taken the time to neatly fold up Richelieu's cassock and placed it on a nearby footrest.

"Jean?" Richelieu cleared his throat, embarrassed at his croak. "Captain?"

There was no reply from the antechamber or anywhere else in the apartment.

Treville was gone.

Richelieu swallowed. 

There were many good reasons for Treville to have left early. It would have been too risky for him to have stayed. Even at the Palais Cardinal they had rarely ever spent an entire night together. Such dalliances were tolerated among young courtiers, but the consequences of the Captain of the Musketeers being found in the First Minister's – a Cardinal's! – bed were unthinkable.

As they were staying at the summer residence of a potentially hostile party, Treville had likely decided to be cautious.

There was no other explanation.

But still, Treville could have woken Richelieu before he had left.

Richelieu swung his legs over the side of the bed and winced as his bare feet touched the cold floor. 

Fall had returned to France.

As the servants had been barred from entering the bedroom and thus unable to take care of the fireplace, the fire had been left to burn down during the time they had spent enjoying each other's company. Richelieu remembered, as they had lain next to each other, sweaty and tired and satisfied, that he had feared one of them would have to get up to stoke the fire until Treville had pulled him close under the covers, knowing from experience how susceptible his lover was to the cold.

Richelieu remembered feeling so thankful as he had nestled against Treville's side, unwilling to leave the bed for anything in the world. Treville, obviously, hadn't shared that sentiment. 

Richelieu stared at his feet, toes curled against the cold.

Would Treville give him hope just to abandon him again?

Wasn't Richelieu supposed to be the cruel one?

He reached for his clothes and looked for the washcloth without waiting for a servant to arrive and help him. But he stopped dressing halfway through tying his shirt closed. 

Was he really going to rush after Treville?

What else was he supposed to do? Return to his desk and pretend to prepare a royal hunt, when he was unable to stop mulling over whether last night had meant anything? Was preserving his pride worth spending his day suspended between despair and hope when relief could be so easily obtained?

What was one more show of desperation after last night?

Richelieu took a deep breath, but couldn't stop his heart from pounding.

After months of waiting for his own destruction, he had finally been blessed with the faintest hope. Every moment that he hesitated to follow Treville would be spent agonizing over whether or not he would be plunged back into that abyss of solitude and fear at the end of the day. 

He had to find Treville, and make him– no! _Beg him_ to repeat his promises in the light of day.

They couldn't just be _done_ like this.

Richelieu slipped into his shoes and was halfway to the door before he came to his senses and returned to put on his red-and-black soutane. He couldn't be seen by the Duchesse's family in shirtsleeves.

He swore as he dressed. There were far too many buttons, loops and ties. As soon as he had finished, he hurried into the antechamber before his will could falter. He had almost made it to the door before it struck him that Treville might prefer to meet him in layman's clothes, rather than see him dressed as the Cardinal.

Richelieu looked back to his dressing room, ready to change again, when he heard the voices coming through the door. 

"His Eminence is not receiving visitors at this time."

"Tell the Cardinal, I will be waiting here, until he's ready to meet me."

_That voice._ Richelieu had heard that unfortunate voice too often this year to mistake it. And he had heard the thrice-damned name attached to that voice too often no to remember it. Of course that harbinger of doom would seek him out now, looking to throw him into the pits of hell just as he had begun to hope he might ascend to paradise.

Richelieu ripped open the door, finding himself face to face with the musketeer Aramis, who was arguing with the pair of Red Guards on duty in front of his apartments.

The arguing voices fell silent.

"What is the meaning of this noise?"

The guards and the musketeer started talking at the same time.

"Your Eminence—"

"This _musketeer_ —"

"You _must_ listen to me."

Richelieu's ears rang. "I _must_ nothing!"

He turned towards his guards.

"Remove this insolent fool from my doorstep at once!"

Aramis stepped back as the guards lunged forward, only too happy to oblige.

"This is about the Queen!" he yelled. "I _know_ what you think you saw at the palace."

Richelieu's blood froze. "You are mistaken." 

"Two months ago, before you retreated to Richelieu" – the guards grabbed the musketeer by the arms, but still words stumbled out of his cursed mouth – "you saw us at the palace!"

Richelieu took hold of the doorframe. The gates of hell opened before him.

  


* * *

  


It was quiet in the gardens. A few birds softly, haltingly singing the first songs of the day in spite of the chill hanging in the air were the only signs of life in the gardens as Treville stepped onto the sanded path between the flower beds. 

The silvery sky promised a cold day, and Treville sighed as he watched the trees swaying in the breeze in their fall dress.

He had woken up happy today. Richelieu had been sleeping next to him, breathing softly. The Cardinal's face had for once been free of the deep lines that he wore during the day like a map of his worries.

Knowing that he had made those lines disappear – if just for a moment – made Treville smile.

Had Richelieu woken in that moment as the first rays of dawn had kissed his tousled hair Treville would have promised him anything he could have asked for.

Richelieu had never looked as holy before.

Treville arrested his steps and shook his head. 

What was he doing?

Two months ago, he had made a decision: for the musketeers, for the Queen, for France. 

It was too easy to question that decision as long as his skin was still warm from Richelieu's embrace and the memories of his demanding kisses and his needy whimpers were still fresh.

He hadn't been touched in months…

Treville wrapped his arms around himself, as though this would defend the last vestiges of warmth in his heart against his chilling doubts.

Richelieu would disappoint him again. He would continue to make his decisions behind Treville's back. It had always been like that; he only needed to remember Savoy, or the Medici…

For as long as Treville had known him, Richelieu had been a schemer, he had always been ruthless, and Treville had stuck with him despite – no… _because_ he had come to believe in his reasoning, because he had come to believe that his actions were necessary. 

Somehow, it had worked out just fine. Somehow, Treville had been able to justify his faith in the Cardinal, until his actions had hurt the people close to Treville one time too often. 

He looked up at the residence. His feet had carried him away from the main building without his noticing, but he was still able to glimpse the windows of the apartments Richelieu currently inhabited. Treville had left him there, sleeping peacefully, looking relaxed for the first time since his return to Paris – no, since even before that.

Treville walked on, following the curved garden path until it led him back to the white marble fountain and sighed. Even the birds had fallen silent by now. The flapping of his cloak in the occasional gust of wind, and the water bubbling around the roughly hewn sculpture of a charging horse at the centre of the fountain was the only sound to be heard.

Treville watched the water run down the horse's flanks, feeling tempted to reach out and let the cool stream run over his hands.

It had taken only Richelieu's tears to wash away his resolutions.

Treville turned away; ready to walk on, when he became aware of the sputtering of the fountain being joined by the faint rumble of voices. 

He thought he heard someone call "Hugo" and started walking until he could make out more words. Trying to ascertain where the voices were coming from, Treville walked down another path until he spotted Saint-Rémy's head over the top of a hedge. He kept walking until he could make out more words. 

It appeared as though the youn man and Ligny were arguing – or had been. Treville had caught the tail-end of their conversation, and watched as Saint-Rémy turned away from his uncle to storm off in the direction of the stables.

Ligny watched him go, but made no attempt to call the young man back. 

Treville wished he could have seen his face, as there had been no sign of strife among the family until now. He walked closer, but the sound of his heavy boots crunching on the sanded path meant he was noticed quickly.

"Good morning, Captain!" 

Ligny politely waved at him before closing the distance between them. There was no sign of distress on his face.

"I hope our small disagreement didn't disturb your walk?" he asked, nodding in the direction Saint-Rémy had taken.

"No." Treville said, at a loss for words. He hadn't had planned to have a conversation with anyone when he had left Richelieu's bed. It was why he had elected to take a walk in what had looked like empty gardens. 

Just like the first evening at the residence, Ligny rescued his guest from further embarrassment by continuing the conversation on his own without waiting for a more elaborate reply.

"Sometimes Hugo makes me regret I never had any children of my own. But on other day I feel like one young man in the house is more than enough."

Treville licked his lips. "What was your argument about?"

"Private matters." Ligny's smiled apologetically. "But I'm sure your next lesson is going to improve his mood. When were you thinking of starting?"

Treville frowned. "I haven't spoken to him about it yet."

According to Richelieu, Saint-Rémy had enjoyed the previous lesson too much. A ridiculous assessment, of course, stemming from the great amounts of stressed he suffered. Ever since his failed attempt on the Queen, the Cardinal had been fearing for his very life. Treville would have appreciated the irony in that more if he hadn't seen Richelieu cry last night, shaking with the outrage born from years of having to foil plots to take his life.

_'I would be dead without my despicable scheming!'_

When Treville had woken today, he had wanted nothing so much as to kiss him. His brave Armand, who had come to this place, the home of potential traitors, although it frightened him so.

"So what drove you out here, Captain? Taking a morning walk in the gardens? It does clear the head wonderfully, doesn't it? Although I'm afraid the weather is only going to get worse." Ligny sighed as he raised his eyes to the cloudy sky.

"Still, I hope our gardens are adequate," he continued. "I assume you're used to walking in the palace gardens at the Louvre? It has been quite a while since I've had to honour of seeing them, but there is no denying that our modest gardens here do not compare."

Treville hesitated. To him, the Duchesse's gardens looked much like any other. He had come out here because the gardens had looked empty, not because he was particularly fond of looking at fountains and flowers. 

"You don't care much for gardens, do you?" Ligny asked.

"No," Treville admitted. Even in the place he had grown up in, and even after his family had moved from a merchant's house into a nobleman's manner, they only garden that had mattered had been the vegetable garden behind the kitchen.

It had been quite a while since he'd last taken a walk in the palace gardens. Beautiful as they might have been, he didn't have much use for them on his own. Of course, he still walked there with the King whenever his Majesty asked him to, but it wasn't quite the same as having a productive talk with Richelieu about court politics between the roses and the hyacinths. 

Treville had never even taken much notice of the flowers and the decorations in the palace gardens when he'd been walking with Richelieu unless the Cardinal had pointed some of them out to them. He wasn't even sure what hyacinths looked like. 

Richelieu, however, liked flowers. It was one of the things that were seemingly so contrary about him. During the summer months he liked to move his court from the audience hall of the Palais Cardinal into his gardens whenever the weather allowed it, and even though he had to be in possession of every shrub and every blossom he could possibly want, the Cardinal failing to conceal his joy over a simple gift of bright flowers was a sight to behold. The way his eyes lit up—

"Captain?"

Treville cleared his throat as he tried to recall what he and Ligny had been talking about.

"I was admiring your fountain," he said.

"That thing! You're so polite, Captain."

Treville tried not to scowl too obviously as Ligny laughed.

"I would have replaced that clunky thing a long time ago, but, unfortunately my sister is very sentimental about it, because André had it made for my sister-in-law, Éléonore." Ligny's expression softened. "I remember Éléonore shared my opinion on it, but since our Duchesse won't part from it, I try to simply avoid looking at it."

"Really." It was a strategy not entirely foreign to Treville, since it was not considered polite to openly laugh at the strange tastes of one of the King's favourites unless His Majesty was laughing along. Behind closed doors, however… 

Treville didn't consider himself to be a fair judge of fashion, not being very interested in the subject himself, but whenever the King's favourite du jour had been particularly obnoxious, it had always been a great relief to hear his musketeers' mockery of that person, and to exchange snide remarks with the Cardinal in the evening. 

For the past few weeks, during which the King had been particularly adamant about having Treville by his side every minute that he spent with his inner circle, he had sorely missed hearing Richelieu's commentary. 

Treville sighed, hardly listening to a single word of Ligny's plans to reorganise his sister's gardens. 

He hated dealing with the court alone. He hated having to listen to the council's petty disputes without having anyone there who shared his suffering. He missed seeing Richelieu's sarcastic smiles in answer to his own exasperation at one courtier or another. He hated not being able to freely share his opinions on any of His Majesty's more outlandish schemes with someone who he needn't fear would misinterpret his words. He hated no longer being able to take a walk in the palace gardens to discuss court politics with someone who _understood_ and he hated that he hadn't thought it necessary to pick the last of this summer's flowers for Richelieu.

He missed having somewhere else to go than his lonely office after an exhausting day at the palace. Nothing could replace the many evenings he'd spent at the Palais Cardinal after fleeing His Majesty's court. Sometimes they'd have dinner together, or just a cup of wine to accompany a lively discussion about anything from court politics to something utterly trivial like the last book Treville had read, or a new play Richelieu wanted to see staged.

Treville understood nothing of theatre, but when Richelieu talked about a production he enjoyed, his voice would swell with emotion and his eyes would glow, and Treville would find that he didn't mind that he understood only half of what his lover was saying.

Sometimes they'd be quietly sitting in Richelieu's study, enjoying the mutual assurance they found in each other's silent company. Treville would watch the Cardinal work until he had filled up on silence. He used to enjoy Richelieu's playful annoyance at any interruption from the theft of an inkpot to a hand on his thigh.

"Captain?"

Treville looked up. Ligny was watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. "I must be boring you with this talk – and after you so bravely admitted to your host that you had no interest in his gardens."

Treville sighed again. "My apologies."

"Don't apologise. _I_ should be apologising. You clearly came out here because you meant to collect your thoughts, and here I am, fantasising about things that are not to be." Ligny sighed. "I will not keep you from your thoughts any longer, although – may I ask what troubles your mind? I hope you didn't find a problem with my sister's estates?"

Treville shook his head in the vain hope of shaking off his day-dreams. "Nothing of the kind." _Not yet_. 

Once Richelieu had recovered his confidence and made good on his promise to grant an audience to Troyes' representatives, things might look differently. Richelieu had the admirable gift to open doors with his tongue that Treville's sword could never hope to break. 

Treville was reminded again of how, the evening before they had left for Troyes, Richelieu had put the proud Spanish ambassador on the defence within moments and calmed His Majesty's outrage with a single sentence.

If things were different, Treville would have kissed him then.

"And did you manage to speak to His Eminence last night?"

Treville cleared his throat. "Yes. He has agreed to consider the Duchesse's proposal."

Ligny smiled again. "That is good news. I was hesitant to ask about him, after the Cardinal's initial reaction."

Although Treville realised that he was not the only one who required an act of faith from Richelieu after the previous evening, the accusation in Ligny's words made him scowl. Richelieu's flight had been born of many reasons far more complicated than simple disrespect.

"Do you know anything about these representatives she intends us to meet?"

"That is something you had better ask my sister. I can't imagine she would arrange this meeting without briefing you first. I'm fairly sure most of them will be Huguenots, but I imagine you already guessed that."

"Hm. I will ask Her Grace." Treville had every intention of keeping his promise to Richelieu to accompany him, no matter who these people were, but additional information would help him decide how many musketeers he would be taking with him, and how heavily armed they were going to be.

Ligny smiled. "You really are a great help, Captain. First, you agree to train my nephew and now you wrestled the Red Sphinx. His Majesty did us all a favour when he sent you ahead."

"I will do what I can until His Majesty arrives."

"I will leave you to your thoughts now," Ligny said. "Shall I tell Hugo to speak to you about his next lesson if I run into him?"

Treville shook his head. "No. No, I will talk to him later."

"Don't leave it too long. Who knows how long the weather will hold."

As if to underline his words, the wind picked up as soon as Ligny had finished speaking, ruffling his blond curls.

"I wouldn't be surprised if we're blessed with rain before dinner," he said.

Treville watched him disappear down the same path as Saint-Rémy, thinking that the sky had turned a shade darker.

If he followed them in that same direction he'd eventually end up near the stables. He could take a horse and ride out while it was still dry, or set up the next lesson for Saint-Rémy. But he knew that whatever he did would not clear his mind. Postponing to think about it would not help him make sense of what had happened between him and Richelieu last night. 

Treville sighed and turned his gaze on the gravel at his feet. 

Why couldn't he have fallen for a simpler man without rank or ambitions? 

But what would the Captain of the King's Musketeers have done with such a man? Would he have told him of all the shadows on his soul? Of all the vile things he did day-to-day in the name of the King?

Would this relationship even last long enough for Treville to watch this man turn away from him?

Treville shook his head. It was not by chance that he had fallen for Richelieu, that extraordinarily shrewd bishop, the Medici Queen's brave spy. This cultured man, who loved art and sweet-smelling flowers was the only one who understood more of the darkness Treville carried within than he himself did.

From the start, he had served the same mistress as Treville: France. One might say that she had introduced them to each other.

Treville turned his face to the breeze, feeling the chill on his skin, and yet, he could still feel Richelieu's body move under his hands when he closed his eyes. He could hear his sighs as the wind rustled in the trees.

There was no sense in asking why he had fallen for Richelieu. He knew the answer. 

The more pressing question was, _what now_?

Treville shook in the cool morning air and started moving again, walking back to the fountain André de Ferrier had installed for his wife. He searched the expressionless face of the horse, hewn roughly from white marble, but the sculpture was as unforthcoming as one of the Cardinal's many masks.

The Red Sphinx they called Richelieu. Filled with secrets – dark secrets that would make every man, woman and child in France quake in their bones.

Treville had been nothing but miserable since leaving him.

Richelieu was the great tyrant – the power behind the throne – endlessly scheming and plotting the downfall of all good and true Catholics or whatever amoral intentions the common Frenchman assumed him to have. 

If the truth was as simple as that, Treville should have been relieved to be rid of Richelieu, instead of returning to his bed. 

But living without Richelieu did not mean living without a heavy conscience.

Had he not tried, just the day before, to take advantage of young Saint-Rémy's trust to goad him into telling him incriminating details about his family and friends?

The lies he told, the secrets he kept – from his own men, even from the King – they had nothing to do with Richelieu.

Treville closed his eyes as a wave of nausea overcame him. He started walking again, without direction, just to be moving. 

If he feared ever having to compromise his honour again, leaving the Cardinal wasn't enough. He'd have to leave the Court, leave Paris, give up his position, his men, and his home. And worse – he would have to leave his duty to someone else. Someone who might be less compromising and less wise to the needs of the mistress he shared with the Cardinal.

Treville stopped to look up at the residence. The secrets and the lies by themselves were not what had made him turn away. From Richelieu How could they? They both agreed that they were necessary evils. 

Everybody lied, from the King and Queen to their lowliest servant. Little lies, but lies nonetheless. 

If the Lord was not as forgiving of repentant sinners, liars in particular, as doctrine claimed, heaven had to be empty.

It was just – Treville hugged himself against the chill – at one point, he had trusted Richelieu would pick the lies he told him more wisely. At least when they concerned the interests of France.

For years, Treville had thought Richelieu trusted him that much – until Sestini, and everything that had followed after him. Labarge, Gallagher, Milady… 

Had that terrible, little monk poisoned the trust between them, or had he merely brought to light a lack of confidence that had always been there?

What had Treville done for Richelieu to look at him so lost and uncertain last night?

They had survived civil war together, had send the Medici into exile standing side by side as equals – twice.

They had also hurt each other, often, repeatedly. Their arguments were famous at court. Their fights could clear an entire ballroom quicker than a charging wild boar. But their fights unfailingly ended quietly, with one of them ceding their argument because he knew he could trust the other's judgement.

Had Treville fooled himself believing that – after all the sacrifices he had made to support Richelieu's cause, from his honour to his men – had he fooled himself believing that Richelieu respected his judgement?

If all of the cruel legends about the Cardinal were true, Treville would have been able to believe that their shared history meant nothing to Richelieu. But he knew that barely any of these stories came close to guessing the whole truth.

Treville looked back at the residence again.

They lied to each other, hurt each other. They also kissed each other, and held each other, and, at the end of the day, there was no one else they could be honest with.

The previous evening, Richelieu had asked Treville to show him how to express his trust, and there was no reason to assume he had been lying. The tears in his eyes, the tremor in his voice – Treville closed his eyes as he remembered their conversation.

The Cardinal was a great actor, but Treville had known him long enough to recognise that his distress was genuine.

Treville started walking again. He had made his decision the moment he had kissed Richelieu.

His steps were light as he turned down the path that would lead him out of the gardens. 

He didn't want their time together to not have meant anything. He didn't want this to be the end. He wanted Richelieu back, and if he were to judge by the night they had spent together, so did Richelieu. 

Richelieu had committed a series of mistakes – grave mistakes. But if he could treat Treville as an equal again, if only he could trust him – they could start anew.

If Treville gave Richelieu a second chance, he might disappoint him again and Treville would have to find a way to live with the guilt. But if he gave up on him, he might never feel again as he had waking up this morning.

Treville took a shaky breath as he returned to the main path. Richelieu had agreed to accompany Troyes to meet with her subjects. If Treville _trusted_ that the Cardinal was serious about his offer, he had to inform the Duchesse.

And if he hurried, he might still make it back to bed before Richelieu awoke. 

But even though Treville hastened his steps, he didn't make it further than the main hall before he was intercepted by a musketeer. The look on the soldier's face made him stop dead in his tracks.

"It's the Cardinal, sir."

  


* * *

  


"Take him inside."

The guards stared, but after a mere moment's hesitation they had pushed Aramis into the Cardinal's quarters.

Richelieu closed the door behind them, before he was ready to look at Aramis again. He thought he had felt cold when he had gotten out of bed. Now, he felt truly cold all over.

The musketeer had managed to push off one of the guards, but he was still fighting with the second who had snatched his sword. 

"Leave him," Richelieu snapped. Although the guards obeyed, they kept eying the musketeer warily. Cahusac had ordered them not to let anyone under arms close to Richelieu. This included their momentary musketeer allies.

Aramis, however, didn't have the good manners to look grateful even for a moment.

"I must speak to you about the Queen, and what you saw at the palace. What—"

"Leave us." Richelieu addressed his guards, talking over Aramis as calmly as he could.

"But—" The Red Guards exchanged a look. "Your, Eminence, please. The Captain's standing orders are—"

"The musketeer will hand over his weapons before you leave."

This shut Aramis up. "You may say this openly, Cardinal. Just swear to me—"

"All of his weapons!"

The look in Aramis' eyes promised rebellion just for a moment, but he relented. One by one, he entrusted the guards with his rapier, dagger and his pistols. 

The sight of those pistols made Richelieu's heart beat faster. Although the musketeer clearly had, at one point, taken the time to fetch his pistol back from Adele's landlady, it didn't seem as though he had understood the warning Richelieu had intended.

"We will be waiting outside, Your Eminence."

"No!"

The guards, who had started to bow, looked up.

"You will leave. You will ask our sentinels around the estate to make their reports and take them to Captain Cahusac. The musketeer can fetch his weapons from the Captain when we are done."

This would buy Richelieu a little time until Cahusac came running to chastise his employer in the least insubordinate way that his Gascon temperament would allow. It was what Richelieu got for letting Treville help him choose a captain who took his guard duty seriously. 

Only once the guards had slunk out of the room and Richelieu had spent a moment listening to their retreating footsteps did Richelieu look at Aramis again.

"What kind of inanity drove you here?" he hissed.

Aramis hissed right back. "The safety of Her Majesty and her child is my only concern. If you should ever feel tempted to speak about what you saw—"

"What did I see?" Richelieu asked, calmly folding his hands in front of him.

Aramis hesitated. "What you _thought_ you saw was false, I—"

"Please, enlighten me about what I thought I saw? I can't recall anything that would warrant your barging in here, in breach, as I understand, of your Captain's orders to have an eye on the keep?"

Speech abandoned the musketeer for a moment. "Are you goading me? You know what I'm talking about!" Aramis strutted towards Richelieu, his face flushing. "I _saw_ you watching us! You made sure we saw you!"

Richelieu exhaled sharply. "I am not, in fact, _goading_ you. I didn't see anything, unless you are of the opinion something suspicious had transpired that I should bring to His Majesty's attention."

"You wouldn't dare." Aramis stood close enough for Richelieu to see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "You can't. Don't you dare!" The musketeer's hands flew to his sides – until he remembered that his sheaths were empty. "I will defend the Queen with my life! I don't need a blade to do it!"

Richelieu's eyes sparked. In a flash, his hand was around the musketeer's throat, shoving him back. 

"It is _because_ I don't dare to throw this entire kingdom to the wolves that I have not seen a thing!" Richelieu hissed. He tightened his grip. "But you come marching in here, asking me to swear to some nonsense in front of my own guards! Do you know what I would have to do to them, to _anyone_ who so much as suspected that the King's heir, the future King of France is a musketeer's bastard?"

Aramis' eyes widened. He grabbed the hand around his throat with one hand, and the Cardinal's elbow with the other. Richelieu gasped as the musketeer wrenched his hand away throat and twisted his arm on his back. A kick to his legs sent Richelieu stumbling.

He caught himself on the small desk to straighten himself as the musketeer's fist connected with his jaw. The floor caught him.

He lay on his side on the polished wood, breathing hard. His jaw hurt. His arm hurt. 

Richelieu shakily propped himself up on his elbow and looked up to see the musketeer looming over him, massaging his throat with one hand. 

"So how do you plan to protect your Queen?" Richelieu wiped away the tears stinging his eyes. "By killing me now?"

Aramis scowled at him. "Don't try that again," he said, and offered Richelieu his hand.

Richelieu gritted his teeth at the sight of that hand, but he took it. Better than trying to get up by himself with Aramis watching. 

As soon as he was on his feet again, he leaned against the desk, suppressing the urge to rub his aching jaw. 

"I could have you shot for this," he hissed. And then he would have to explain to Treville _why_.

His heart bobbed in his throat. "Does your Captain know about your secret?"

"No!"

Richelieu held back a sigh of relief. The thought of Treville becoming embroiled in this disgusting affair sickened him. 

If he spared Aramis, all he had to do was come up with a lie for the bruise that was no doubt forming on his jaw – not a day after he had promised Treville to be more trusting.

He could feel a sardonic smile tug at his lips, directed at no one but himself.

"And now what?" Aramis grimaced. "It would solve this problem for you neatly, wouldn't it? Having me shot for striking you."

Richelieu glowered at the musketeer. "What _you_ should be doing to solve this problem is never mention this affair again. Never even think of it. You will stay far away from Her Majesty, and her child at all times, and if you succeed, we may both continue to live our lives, happy and content that no one has come to harm through your _mishap_."

"My—!" Aramis teeth flashed as he spoke. " _You_ put her into that convent in the first place! I was there for her when she needed me!"

"So it is my fault, of course." Richelieu almost choked on the laughter stuck in his throat. "Convents do _so_ stimulate the spirit, why shouldn't the novices also stimulate a young soldier's flesh?"

"You—!" Aramis' hand flew back to his empty sheath. He looked away, running a hand through his hair, and took a deep breath. "I am not playing these games with you. You confessed in front of Her Majesty."

"And Her Majesty put the affair to rest. As should you."

Aramis stepped closer again. "You think she has just forgiven you? That she could ever forget what you did you her?"

Richelieu winced, and the door opened. 

Four men and a woman shuffled into the room and came to a stop right in front of the doorway. They looked no less puzzled at their sudden presence here than Aramis and Richelieu. 

Richelieu had never seen them before. They looked to be a few years older than the musketeer and were well dressed, but they clearly weren't noblemen. The newcomers lacked the jewellery and ornamentation of their betters, and they didn't carry themselves with that air of noblesse Richelieu had become so used to that he hardly knew how to describe its absence.

Richelieu's heart skipped a beat as he realised that he must have forgotten to lock the door after the Red Guards had left.

Anyone could have walked in at any point of his conversation with Aramis.

"Cardinal Richelieu?" One of the men had found his voice. He was carrying a plain, wooden walking cane and even when standing still he seemed to heavily favour one leg. He spoke calmly, as though he had no idea what he had walked in on.

"Get out!"

The intruders flinched, but they remained where they were. 

The woman spoke up. "Are you not going to hear what we have to say? Do you know who we are?"

"I don't know who you are and I have no interest in finding out. Now, get out!"

"You will not listen to us?"

"Get out!" Richelieu hissed, but he knew something wasn't right. Who had let these people into the residence?  
"Just an hour of your time is all we ask."

"Get out!" 

Richelieu looked at Aramis, who, although unarmed, was the only guard in sight.

"We tried to talk to you, Cardinal."

The pistol one of the men produced didn't surprise Richelieu as much as Aramis stepping in front of him. 

The woman gasped and a moment of hesitation passed between the intruders in which no shot was fired, no words were exchanged – long enough for the musketeer to make a dash for the man with the pistol. 

Aramis pushed the barrel to the side and delivered a blow to the man's head at the same time. The musketeer's hand closed around the weapon just as the man stumbled back and his grip on the gun slackened. He was, of course, not the only one who was armed.

The other man's cane made for an unfortunately effective club and Richelieu could only watch as Aramis dropped to the floor, bleeding.

The man who had been punched gave the musketeer a kick in the ribs – and another. "Musketeer scum!" he spat.

"Stop!" Richelieu yelled. 

The man pulled his leg back, aiming for another kick, until one of his companions put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him away from the prone figure.

Aramis did not get up.

Distantly, Richelieu heard the woman ask whether he was dead.

"Cardinal Richelieu."

Time slowed, turning thick and sluggish as molasses as Richelieu lifted his eyes to meet the man who had picked up his comrade's pistol and was now pointing it directly at him.

All he had meant to do when he had gotten out of bed was to look for Treville.

His eyes darted across the room, looking for anything – _anything_ – to defend himself with. He could dash behind the desk, but the wood wasn't going to stop the pistol ball. Not at this distance.

"Please, Cardinal, this doesn't have to hurt," said the stranger with the gun. There was a distinct tremor in his voice and Richelieu swallowed. He had always assumed that when this day came, the deed would be done by people who knew what they were doing.

The scene in his dreams had never looked anything like this. There had never been a host of nobodies to confront him, or a bruise blossoming on his jaw where the Queen's illicit lover had punched him. 

Even Concini had been granted to be killed by the Captain of the King's guard, surrounded by his followers, and under an open sky.

Richelieu's vision blurred behind a veil of tears. 

He didn't want to meet his Lord with so many matters left unsettled. There were so many sins he hadn't made up for yet that barred him from unity with God.

It had been days since his last confession.

Richelieu looked down the black barrel of the gun as into an abyss as he waited for the spark in the gun's pan to light the fires of hell. 

At least, if he was about to be judged and banished for breaking the laws of his creator, he would have appreciated knowing for certain if Treville loved him.

"Please, Cardinal. Do what we say and you will not be harmed."

Richelieu blinked. He forced himself to breathe in. It took effort to take his eyes off the gun and look at his assassins.

"What do you want?" he croaked. The sound of his own voice made him wince. "You have my attention now."

After being so offended that he wouldn't hear them out, the intruders had fallen silent. Richelieu saw them turn to the man Aramis had punched. The man, who was ostensibly their leader, rubbed his jaw. 

"You'll find out soon enough," he snapped.

"My friend," one of the other men addressed their leader. He seemed hesitant, but he was shot down with a look.

Although his heart was beating so wildly that Richelieu was convinced the introducers could hear it, the Cardinal straightened.

"It is not too late to say what you came here to say and leave."

"You're leaving with us."

Richelieu saw the group's leader produce a length of rope from within the folds of his cloak and clasped his hands in front of him to stop them from shaking.

"You can't expect that you will be able to just walk out of here with me."

A glower was his only reply. 

Richelieu had to resist the urge to snatch his hands a way as one of the men grabbed them to tie them up in front of him. He didn't want to have to suffer the touch of these men, let alone their ties, but the gun was still trained on him, and although these people appeared to prefer to take him alive, he was not blind to the nervous tension in the room. There was no saying what these people would do if startled.

The coarse rope cut Richelieu's skin as the man pulled the knots tight.

All he had wanted to do was to find Treville.

On the floor, Aramis moaned. 

"What about him?" The woman had dropped to her knees next to the musketeer and raised a hand to examine the wound on his head. "He's bleeding. We can't leave him lying here. Are we taking him with us?"

She looked up at her leader, who unsheathed a knife. At least _he_ had come prepared to do anything.

"I will not tolerate a musketeer anywhere near me."

The woman's eyes widened. "Marais!"

"No! Don't!"

Richelieu wasn't aware it was he who had spoken until he felt all eyes turn on him. He looked at the musketeer, who was blinking slowly, regaining consciousness just in time for the deathblow.

"Are you killers as well as kidnappers?" Richelieu asked.

The leader's – Marais' – eyes narrowed, and Richelieu swallowed.

If they killed Aramis now, he could at least be sure that the Queen, her unborn child, and with them the French Crown, would be safe from his foolishness.

All it took was one more death on his conscience.

All Richelieu needed to do, was to do nothing. 

Not even Treville would ever have to know that he – perhaps – had a chance to save Aramis.

"You only need to let us go for this to end. If you don't harm us any further, there is a chance His Majesty will forgive you. But if you kill this man now, you will be murderers in the eyes of God and men, and you will be punished as such."

He didn't think it wise to mention that regardless of what they did the King would have them executed for attempting to kidnap his First Minister.

Another moment of hesitation passed between the introducers. The one called Marais grimaced – then, one of the men who had been silent up until now spoke up.

"Are we going to let a Catholic lecture us about God?"

Richelieu pressed his eyes closed. He had hoped, perhaps, that Marais was the only one who was bent on going ahead with this folly.

"This isn't what we wanted," the woman protested.

Aramis grunted as Marais kicked him again. But this time, he stopped after the first kick. "Have it your way then," he spat. "Tie him up."

A silent prayer passed between Richelieu's lips as they shoved him out of the door. He didn't resist.

Aramis was going to live, for now. 

So was he.

Perhaps, whatever these people planned to do to him, they would do it to Aramis first. Perhaps, the fact that they had to manoeuvre an injured musketeer would delay their captors long enough for his Red Guards to return in time.

But even if they didn't run into any Red Guards Richelieu was sure that wherever they were taking him, and if he couldn't have anyone else, he would rather go there with a musketeer than alone.

Even if that musketeer had to be Aramis.


	9. Chapter 9

Richelieu had been warned not to make a sound as he was led out of his apartments flanked by two of his captors. The muzzle of the pistol pressed against his ribs, but even without the threat he wouldn't have dared to call out. The freedom with which the strangers moved through the residence made it clear that calling for help would be unwise.

Someone had admitted these people and shown them how to reach their target, and that someone had also told them how to disappear again. 

They passed through small, empty sitting rooms, narrow staircases meant for servants and silent halls Richelieu had never seen before. The man with the cane led the way with a confidence that was in stark contrast to the indecision the kidnappers had shown when they had first entered the Cardinal's chambers.

They moved through the residence without encountering a soul until they stopped in a small chamber on the ground floor that harboured no more than a large cupboard and the narrow doorway next to it.

Richelieu couldn't take his eyes off that doorway. It looked like the door to a dungeon. A low arc hewn into a stone wall, covered by a thick-looking door reinforced with metal bands. By the scratches on the floor in front of it, he gathered that it had been hidden behind the cupboard. 

The sight of it made his skin prickle.

Richelieu cast a desperate look around the small chamber and caught sight of Aramis, hands bound and looking pathetic in the makeshift bandage the woman had wrapped around his forehead. The man next to him was holding onto his arm in an iron grip and it didn't appear as though the musketeer was about to execute a last-minute plan to overwhelm their captors.

The sound of flint being struck caused Richelieu to return his attention to the man with the cane. He saw him gently blow into a round tinder box. The plain box looked well-used, like the kind a soldier might carry. 

When the man finally managed to light the candle on top of his box, one of his companions offered him a torch that caught quickly fire.

A sigh escaped Richelieu's throat as one of the men opened the heavy door and he saw the steps behind it descend into pitch-black darkness. As the man with the cane stepped into that hole his torch cast the walls of the dark passage in a dirty orange light, lending the passage beyond a hellish glow.

"How do you expect this to end?" Richelieu asked the strangers.

Someone gave him a shove.

"Move."

Richelieu took a deep breath. Just as he passed beneath the stone arc he felt a hand lightly touch the back of his head. He jumped, bumping his temple on the rough wall and for a moment he wasn't sure whether the blackness in front of his eyes was due to the pain, or because the darkness had swallowed the torchlight.

When Richelieu's vision cleared and the light returned, the flickering torch caused a wave of nausea to sweep from his brain to his guts and he pressed his eyes shut.

"Watch your head!"

Richelieu swallowed the biting reply that lay on his tongue, electing instead to concentrate on keeping himself from falling as someone took hold of his tied up wrists and lead him down the steps.

When he heard his captors shut the heavy door behind them, he tried not to think of how much the sound reminded him of a stone slab sliding into place on a tomb. 

Richelieu suppressed a gasp as the man in front of him pulled him forward, making him walk on even though their single torch barely sufficed to light the way. All he could make out in the flickering half-light were the rugged, narrow walls of the passage that seemed far too close. Only the rough hands of his captors kept Richelieu from falling whenever he stumbled over the uneven ground. 

At every misstep his breath caught. At every misstep he felt the barrel of the pistol jab his ribs.

Finally, the darkness began to lighten and Richelieu breathed a sigh of relief when he caught the first glimpse of daylight at the end of the tunnel – even though he soon realised the daylight was falling in through a grating of metal bars atop another set of stone stairs.

They all watched in silence as the man with the cane ascended the stairs and pushed open the metal gate. He called out to someone out of sight, then motioned for the rest of them to follow.

"You can still turn back." Richelieu's voice sounded harsh in the silent tunnel. His were the first words anyone had uttered since they had left that small chamber on the ground floor of the residence.

"Stay quiet!" Marais hissed and Richelieu silently allowed one of his captors to seize his arm as he was led up the stairs and into the sunlight. 

The tunnel exited onto a dirt path cutting through a small clearing surrounded by dark trees and thick underbrush. They must have reached the edge of the woods that had looked so impenetrable to Richelieu on the day they had first come to the residence.

The sense of foreboding he had felt every time he had looked at the woods the previous day returned to him with full force. He could see no sign of the residence, not even a clue in what direction it lay, but somehow the kidnappers had found this place, and the tunnel.

And they were not alone.

The man with the cane was standing in the middle of the dirt path, talking to a woman dressed in the same muted style as the kidnappers. She raised her head as the rest of the group approached and when her eyes fell on Richelieu her mouth dropped open.

"No!" 

The grip on Richelieu's arm tightened and he flinched as he felt the muzzle of the gun press into his side.

"Everything will right itself," the man with the cane said. "Don't worry."

" _Don't worry_?" The woman clearly had no intention to listen to the man's advice. "What do you think you're doing? What happened to _talking_?"

"Ask the Cardinal," Marais barked.

"If you think–" Richelieu began, but no one heard him as the woman continued to argue.

"This isn't what we came here for!"

"You wouldn't even come inside!" Marais snapped.

"If I had known this is what you would do, I wouldn't even have come this far!"

It did not escape Richelieu that his captors' looked stricken by her words. The other woman looked as though she had something to say, but Marais was quicker.

"Enough! This is neither the right place nor the right time to argue." He indicated the tunnel with a wild gesture. "We need to leave! And the Cardinal and his friend are coming with us."

" _His_ –" It appeared that the woman hadn't paid any attention to Aramis before. Her eyes narrowed as she took in first the cloth wrapped around his head and then his attire. "A musketeer? You took _a musketeer_?"

"He attacked us!"

"Because _you_ pointed a gun at us!" It appeared that Aramis had regained his voice and Richelieu twisted in his captors' grasp in time to see the musketeer glower at Marais who looked ready to kick him again.

"One more word and you will be gagged! 

"Do you know what the King will do to us if we take them with us? What he will do to the town? To the village? Is that what you want?" The woman looked from face to face as she regarded the group in front of her. "You agreed to this?"

"Listen to her! You can end this—"

Aramis was thrown back in his captors' arms as Marais' fist connected with his jaw.

"Enough!" Marais' eyes flashed as he rubbed his knuckles. "Gag them!"

Richelieu winced as his captors tightened their grip on his arms, but neither of them made a move to follow Marais' orders. There was no telling how long this moment of hesitation would last and the words flowed from Richelieu's lips without much prompting.

"His Majesty will be more lenient if you release us now!" 

His heart was in his throat as Marais turned towards him.

" _His Majesty_ ", the man growled, "does not have a say in what happens here." He looked at the men holding Richelieu. "Are you going to allow that butcher impose his will on you again? Because I don't need to tell you what you are going to suffer if you let King Louis decide what happens next."

Hearing one of the men mumble "no" sent a chill up Richelieu's spine.

"Everything we lost, everyone who died – did you suffer through all of that to cower before scum like this?" He pointed at Richelieu. "Everyone knows the King is weak without his First Minister. He won't risk the Cardinal's life. This is our chance to save us! This is how we leave a mark on this country!"

"By swinging from the gallows?" Even though the lump in his throat should have blocked out his words, Richelieu failed to hold his tongue in the face of such naiveté. There was only one thing the King was going to do – only one thing he _could_ do – once he heard of his First Minister's abduction.

The look Marais sent him made Richelieu's mouth go dry.

"You asked for this," Marais whispered.

His captors held Richelieu fast as Marais grabbed his collar.

"Stop!" The woman rushed over to them, grabbing Marais' arm. "This is not who we are! What has gotten into you?" 

"You _know_!"

Richelieu sagged in his captors' grasp as Marais dropped him and walked over to the woman. "You where _there_!"

"I will not be a part of this!" she shouted.

"You would abandon us now?" Marais threw a wild glance back at the tunnel. "This place is swarming with musketeers!" 

All colour drained from the woman's face. "Lord, help us!" She looked at the prisoners again, at Aramis' blue cloak, and then she looked into the faces of her companions. "You've doomed us."

"The damage is done! Troyes knows who we are. She's not going to lie for us." Marais took hold of the woman's shoulders. "But we have friends—"

"What kind of _friends_ would support this?"

"We cannot turn back now, and we cannot tarry another moment." Marais leaned in closer. His voice dropped almost too low for Richelieu to hear.

"Don't leave us now. I promise you—"

The woman's shoulders slumped. "And _where_ do you think you're taking them?" Her voice sounded threadbare. "They _can't_ go to the village. Please—"

"Let that be my concern. Do as I say and I promise you no harm will come to the village. But we _have_ to leave now."

The woman hesitated. She looked at the tunnel and her companions before turning back to Marais. 

"Just tell me you have plan."

Her resistance died along with the sudden hope her protest had sparked in the captives.

"You're lying to yourself if you believe this is going to end well for you!" Richelieu tried to catch her eye, but now that the struggle between Marais and the woman was over, the rest of the group sprang into action.

"You—" Richelieu never finished what he meant to say as his protest was cut short by the ball of cloth shoved into his mouth.

  


* * *

  


"The Cardinal has disappeared."

The musketeer continued to speak, but Treville heard nothing beyond those words.

"Disappeared?" He must have misheard. Richelieu had been peacefully sleeping in his bed when Treville had left him at dawn. How long had it been? An hour ago? Two hours at most.

"Has he left the residence?"

"His guards are looking for him. It is possible he has been abducted."

Treville's stomach dropped. "Abducted?" The word felt wrong in his mouth.

_Abducted._

"How? Where are his guards? Where is Captain Cahusac?" And where had they been when Richelieu had disappeared?

"Captain Cahusac is in the Cardinal's chambers. He has requested your presence."

Treville started moving before the musketeer finished speaking. By the time he reached the stairs that would take him to Richelieu's apartments he was running and he didn't stop running until he came face to face with Cahusac in the small chamber that served as the Cardinal's temporary study.

The look of hatred in the Guard Captain's eyes would have stopped a charging bull.

"Is this your idea of cooperation?"

Treville stopped dead in his tracks.

"You cannot seriously be suggesting that our Captain had anything to do with this?"

That was d'Artagnan.

Treville turned around and saw d'Artagnan leaning against the window sill next to Athos and Porthos. Porthos in particular looked outraged. Not even on the battlefield had Treville ever seen him look so grim.

Troyes was also present, as was a fully armed squad of Red Guards.

Treville turned back to Cahusac. "What happened?"

Cahusac's glower rivalled Porthos'. "Look around you, _Captain._ " There was a distinct note of panic in the guard captain's voice that made Treville's skin prickle as he looked around the study.

The room appeared the same as he had left it this earlier this morning. It appeared that no servant had come in here to pick up the papers and other items that had been thrown off the desk during his argument with Richelieu on the previous evening. 

It was hard to believe Richelieu wasn't still asleep in the next room.

Treville had meant to tidy up the desk before leaving the Cardinal's apartments, but in the weak light of dawn he must have missed some of the papers. He had also missed the puddle of spilled ink at the foot of the desk and the pile of shards that had once been an inkpot. Any of it had to look suspicious to someone ignorant of what had happened last night, but it was hardly a reason to assume—

Treville sucked in his breath when he saw the flecks of dried blood on the floor. There wasn't a lot of it, but it was unmistakable to an old soldier.

Treville looked away.

"What happened?" he asked again. His voice was hoarse.

"Why don't _you_ tell _me_ what happened here?" Cahusac spat. "Since it was _your_ man who did this."

Treville stared at him in open-mouthed disbelief. "You're accusing my men?" 

He looked at the musketeers and saw d'Artagnan put a hand on Porthos' shoulder.

"He claims Aramis attacked the Cardinal." The young musketeer's tone made it clear what he thought of the accusations.

"Aramis is at the keep." Treville looked at Porthos who had to have just returned from there. When he saw him grit his jaw, Treville felt cold dread pool deed inside of him. "He isn't?"

Porthos' met his Captain's eyes reluctantly. "I told him to stay there. Don't know what he wanted here."

"I can tell you what he wanted here!" Cahusac's face had turned as red as his cape. "Your man," he stabbed the air just as the Cardinal would have done, "barged in here, demanding – _demanding!_ – to speak to His Eminence, and now there is no trace of either of them!"

"You lie!"

D'Artagnan had to physically throw himself in front of Porthos to stop him from charging at Cahusac. 

"Where were _your_ men?" Treville roared. There was no one to hold _him_ back. He had recommended this man to Richelieu, thinking the Cardinal would be protected… "Your men were supposed to be guarding the Cardinal at all times!" 

"His Eminence bade us leave so he could hear out your man in private." 

Treville tore his gaze away from Cahusac to stare down the Red Guard who had spoken up.

"And you obeyed? You _abandoned_ him? Here?" Treville remembered how he had caught Richelieu exploring the residence on his own on the first night they had spent here and felt his blood boil. 

"We took the musketeer's arms first."

"So." All eyes turned on d'Artagnan. "You're saying Aramis somehow managed to abduct the Cardinal and slip past every sentinel you posted around the residence _while he was unarmed_?" D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "I know we're supposed to be the elite regiment, but—" he attempted to share a long look with his Captain who looked away. 

"It was your _duty_ to protect him!" Treville pressed the words out between gritted teeth. "Do not blame this on anyone else!"

The Red Guard winced. "We went to inform Captain Cahusac of what had transpired as soon as we left the Cardinal's chambers," he said, "but by the time we returned here, His Eminence was gone – as was your musketeer."

"You're certain it was Aramis who came here?" Athos asked, giving Treville a moment to breathe.

He had left Richelieu's bed at dawn. Richelieu had been safe then.

Now he had disappeared, possibly been kidnapped, and the Red Guard were wasting their time with accusations against the musketeers.

Treville felt nauseous.

"Just because you musketeers never look at anyone twice doesn't me we don't know who you are."

"What did Aramis want from the Cardinal?" Treville spoke before one of his men could retort and start a petty fight that would delay them even longer. 

The Red Guard looked at his Captain. As Cahusac failed to protest, he elaborated: "His Eminence sent us away so he could speak with the musketeer in private, but we gathered it had something to do with Her Majesty."

Treville cast his eyes to the ceiling – it was all he could do to stop himself from crying out in despair. 

Of course Richelieu would have sent away his guards the moment Aramis had mentioned the Queen. Already too many people knew of that affair. If any of what Richelieu had planned for the Queen ever reached the ear of one of His Majesty's rivals, King Philip in particular, there was no telling what would happen.

Treville had told Aramis to let the issue go. Now where had it led them?

He tried not to look at the blood again. He couldn't afford to even think about it.

Richelieu was in danger and instead of looking for whoever was responsible, the Cardinal's guards were suspecting Aramis.

Treville sought Cahusac's eyes. "Was there a note?" 

"I didn't think any of the musketeers could write," one of the Red Guards mumbled and Cahusac shut him up with a look.

"No," Cahusac admitted. "We searched the residence when we couldn't find His Eminence in his quarters. He isn't here."

Treville stiffened. "I didn't see you searching the gardens."

"Not yet. My men are organising a wide-scale search of the grounds as we speak."

"And yet you didn't waste any time making accusations," Athos scoffed. 

Cahusac returned his glower without flinching. "His Eminence may be in danger! No, I do not waste any time under these circumstances."

"So why are we wasting time _now_?" Porthos rumbled.

Cahusac frowned, but as he didn't immediately protest, Treville saw a chance to end the argument.

"We need to combine our efforts to find the Cardinal," he said.

Cahusac hesitated. "Please understand that I cannot forget that your man is our prime suspect."

"Please."

Treville froze when the Duchesse stepped forward. Her presence had entirely slipped his mind.

"Please, know that every single man and woman in my household is yours to command in this matter." She sounded as solemn as she looked, her dark dress laced in black looking entirely too appropriate for the occasion. Her forest-green skirts shimmered through the black lace like the feathers of a bird of ill-omen.

Cahusac's face turned to stone as he addressed her. "My apologies, Your Grace, but as His Eminence disappeared under your roof I cannot accept your help at this moment."

Troyes turned pale. "Am I a suspect to? You honestly believe _I_ might have assaulted His Eminence?"

"No. Not in person," Cahusac said, "but someone in your household might have."

The Duchesse's expression hardened. "Are you going to arrest me?"

"Not formally. But I must ask you, your family and your retinue to retreat to your quarters until His Eminence has been found – unless you have a confession to make."

"Would I offer my help if I had ordered anyone to harm His Eminence?" Her eyes switched from Cahusac to Treville and back when Treville failed to react.

"That remains to be seen," Cahusac said.

"Well then." The Duchesse squared her shoulders. "My men could have helped you, but you must do what you think is proper. I will inform my people of your decision, ill-judged as it may be."

"You may do so, but one of my guards will have to accompany you," Cahusac added and bade one of his men to step forward.

Storm clouds flashed behind the Duchesse's eyes, but she followed the guard out of the room without further protest.

For a moment after she was gone, musketeers and Red Guards eyed each other in silence.

"Are you going to confine us to our quarters as well?" Athos asked, and Treville gritted his teeth as Cahusac frowned at him.

"The Cardinal is in danger. Any time we waste here arguing is time we are not spending on finding him!"

"And Aramis," Porthos added. "You can't stop us from looking for our friend."

Cahusac scowled. "You cannot deny how this situation looks. We have found no trace of the smuggled Spanish arms or any other hint of treason since we came here, and His Eminence was last seen with one of your men."

Treville swallowed. "What do you propose?" He made another attempt to sound calm, but he was afraid the tension in his voice betrayed just how desperate he was for this conversation to be over.

"We combine our forces, as you said."

For a moment, Treville thought he could breathe again, but Cahusac wasn't done: "But from now on, every musketeer will be accompanied by a Red Guard."

"What?" The musketeers sounded more offended by this compromise than they had been by the suggestion that Aramis had abducted the Cardinal.

Treville cleared his throat. "Does this request include me?" 

For a long moment, Cahusac returned Treville's glower. "Should it?"

Nominally they were both captains, but in actuality they were separated in rank by a gulf almost as wide as the one that separated Cahusac from his employer. Treville was the first person His Majesty saw in the morning and often the last person he saw before disappearing in his royal apartments for the night.

He did not have to take orders from the Cardinal's private guard captain. When he wasn't executing the First Minister's orders, Cahusac was nobody. In this place, Cahuac's authority extended beyond his own men only as far as Treville allowed it.

But the Duchesse's estate was large and Richelieu was possibly in great danger and Treville couldn't afford antagonising the people most invested in seeing the Cardinal safe. 

Treville sighed. "We accept."

"What? _Captain?_ "

Treville closed his eyes. This would be a nightmare to arrange, costing them valuable time, but it stopped Cahusac from arguing and – even worse – working _against_ the musketeers.

The long-standing rivalry between the two regiments was bound to make any joint efforts difficult enough, but the suspicions Aramis had raised meant Treville had to make any concession he could to stop the Red Guard from regarding the musketeers as obstacles in their search – or enemies. 

At least he didn't have to deal with the organisation himself. "Athos." He turned towards his musketeers. "Draw up a roster for the Captain."

Athos' stony expression rivalled the one the Duchesse had put on earlier, but he was well trained. "At once, Captain."

Cahusac nodded, apparently satisfied. "Keep your men confined until they are ready."

The musketeers remained silent as Treville assented, but their outrage was written clear on their faces. Treville would have to deal with them later, but at the moment he was ready to do whatever he needed to get this search underway.

"There is a good chance that his Eminence and your man are still on the grounds." Cahusac said. He turned to one of his guards. "Send word that I want every one of our men presently stationed at the keep to return here and assist in the search for His Eminence and that musketeer."

"What happens when you find them?" Athos asked.

"Until we can establish what role the musketeer played in the Cardinal's disappearance, your man is not to be harmed."

The musketeers didn't look happy, but protested no further and Treville was thankful for it.

"And now," Cahusac continued, "I suggest we all do what we agreed to and stop wasting time." He looked at Treville and the musketeers as though he expected them to be gone five minutes ago, but none of them moved. The musketeers turned to their Captain.

"You have your orders," Treville said. He started for the door and the musketeers fell in line behind him. Doing anything Cahusac requested of them went against their nature, but they would follow their Captain.

As soon as they were in the hall outside, d'Artagnan spoke up. "What are we going to do, Captain?"

Treville kept walking. "Get started on that roster, Athos. Now!"

Athos' eyes widened in surprise at being dismissed so quickly.

"What about us?" D'Artagnan asked.

"Return to the quarters assigned to you."

The stunned silence that followed Treville's words lasted only for a moment.

"What about Aramis?" Porthos asked.

Treville stopped and the musketeers gathered around him, as though they were blind to the look of murder in his eyes.

"We need to find him before the Red Guards do," d'Artagnan said. "They claim they don't intend to harm him, but you've seen how quick they are to jump to conclusions."

Treville looked around the hall. It was empty apart from them. 

He turned to look at Porthos. "Why did you take him back here?"

Porthos blinked. "I didn't take him back here. I told him to stay at the keep. He followed me."

"And you didn't question him?" Treville could imagine it. Porthos would have given Aramis a stern look, but made no move to turn his friend around. 

Porthos scowled. "He didn't do this. Aramis—"

"He should _not_ have been here!" Treville's shout rang in the empty hallway and the musketeers flinched. He dropped his voice as he continued. "He disobeyed his orders and now the Cardinal – the _First Minister of France_ – is missing! Aramis could be dead!"

Treville broke off before another word could leave his tongue. The thought that he might have lost one of his men was painful enough. He didn't even want to voice the possibility that Richelieu might be dead as well.

_Richelieu could be dead._

Just a few short hours ago Treville had been lying at his side, kissed his brow…

Looking chastised, and very possibly occupied with their own thoughts of Aramis' fate, the musketeers fell silent, giving Treville a moment to think.

There had been nothing in the Cardinal's study to suggest anyone had been killed. There had been blood, but not enough to assume anyone had been seriously injured.

"For now" – he took a deep breath and started walking again – "we must assume they have both been abducted." 

"That seems likely," Athos agreed. "If this cabal we have been after was plotting to assassinate the Cardinal we would have found a body. Political assassinations tend to be highly public." 

"But where's the sense in kidnapping the First Minister of France and a musketeer and not letting anyone know why?" d'Artagnan asked. "Cahusac said there was no note, right?"

"Perhaps they're going to send a message directly to the King?" Porthos suggested.

Treville paused at the head of the stairs. He did not want to imagine what that message might look like. "We can't wait for that." 

The musketeers followed him down the stairs. It appeared that the Duchesse had already carried out Cahusac's orders as Treville he led the way to their quarters through deserted halls.

He turned towards Athos as they walked. "The sooner Captain Cahusac has that roster, the sooner you can start looking for Aramis."

"Watched by the Red Guard," Porthos snorted. "We're going to give the kidnappers time to get away if we wait for them to be ready."

He stopped dead as Treville whirled around to face him. Treville made sure to look each of them in the eyes before he continued. "The best way to help Aramis, is to stay out of Cahusac's way until the search is underway. As fantastical as it may seem to you, he doesn't believe Aramis is innocent and any disobedience from you will only serve to raise his suspicions. We need to find Aramis and the Cardinal quickly, and I will not tolerate any of you putting their lives at risk because of a grudge."

"So we wait?"

"You brought maps of Troyes." Treville looked at Porthos. "You've been at the keep. Use what knowledge you have gained to prepare for your search." 

The musketeers accepted his orders solemnly.

Treville knew there could be no worse pain for them than to have to wait for the Red Guard's approval before they could set out on a rescue mission, but even as he left them near their quarters and headed back in the direction of the Cardinal's chambers, he prayed the musketeers understood that under the circumstances antagonising Cahusac further meant even greater delay of their own plans.

It seemed unreal that so much should have happened during the short time since he had left Richelieu's side. That night, Treville had promised to protect him. If he had stayed with Richelieu instead of roaming through the gardens feeling sorry for himself, the Cardinal might not have been taken.

 _Or_ the kidnappers would have caught them in bed together.

Treville shut his eyes. Contemplating _what ifs_ were not going to help him find out what had happened to the Cardinal and his musketeer. He had to focus on the task at hand – and pray that he would find the two of them before anything worse befell them.

He walked back the way they had come, convinced that the best place to start looking for hints to their whereabouts were the Cardinal's apartments, but as he passed from hall to hall, he couldn't help but think how empty the residence looked. Even the small retinue the Duchesse's family had brought over from Troyes had managed to make the place come alive, and the hush that had fallen over the residence so suddenly just served to emphasized how wrong Treville felt. 

His steps faltered as he realised that the only noise that echoed in the hall, beside his own footfall, was the soft, familiar patter of rain against the window panes. A look outside confirmed that Ligny's prediction about the weather had come true, and the sickly hue of the sky promised even worse.

A thunderstorm would make a search of the grounds much more difficult, particularly in the woods.

Treville cursed. He would not be defeated by the weather. Speeding up his steps, he turned into the next hallway – and stopped dead when he caught sight of a dark skirt disappearing through a narrow doorway at the opposite end of the hall that had to be leading to a servant's corridor. 

He recognised that skirt. The Duchesse had been wearing it earlier in the Cardinal's study, but there was no sign of the Red Guard who had been assigned to accompany her. 

Treville hastened after her, reaching the doorway in time to see Troyes disappear down another hall. She was moving fast for a woman of her age and she had not even bothered closing the door behind her. 

Not dressed for sneaking, Treville followed her at a pace just short of a run through one empty hall and another, thankful for the ubiquitous runners that softened his footsteps. But whatever the Duchesse was up to, she appeared to be so caught up in her haste that she might not even have noticed an entire army following her.

She never stopped to check if she was unobserved. She never turned around as she passed quickly from room to room until she came to a halt inside of a small chamber in front of a plain-looking, if large cupboard.

Unwilling to give himself away just yet, Treville stopped just outside the chamber and watched. Troyes had her back turned to him and swept her gaze from side to side as though now that the chase was over, she was uncertain of what it was she had come here for. Over her shoulder Treville could see a dark door set deep into the wall that she appeared to be contemplating for a long moment. But once her moment of indecision had passed, she leaned forward to open the cupboard. 

When she cried out and jumped back, Treville threw all caution to the wind and stormed into the chamber. 

He froze when he saw what had upset her.

In front of the Duchesse, stuffed into the bottom of the cupboard, lay a corpse.


	10. Chapter 10

"I have a confession to make." 

The room was silent as Troyes started to speak, safe for the steady patter of rain on the windowpanes.

"It is my hope that there are things that may still be salvaged from this unfortunate affair," she said gravely.

Treville saw Ligny glance at his sister, but the Sieur kept silent. He appeared to be as uncertain of what to make of this gathering as the soldiers. 

Saint-Rémy, by contrast, looked openly distraught as he hovered at his aunt's side. If Richelieu and Aramis weren't in danger, Treville might have felt sorry for the young man. Depending on what the Duchesse said next he could be losing another parent – or his life.

As soon as the body of the man who Troyes had identified as Martin Bonheur, one of her servants, had been examined by the Red Guards, she had shown them the tunnel. She must have realised that they would have found it anyway.

She had told them the tunnel had been built as a siege tunnel, but that it was now commonly used to keep the villagers and townsfolk supplying the residence out of sight of any highborn visitors to the estate. True enough, there was a path leading away from the clearing at the tunnel's entrance and into the forest that Troyes claimed led directly to the nearby village.

But although she hadn't been able to give a clear answer to Cahusac when he had asked her why she had neglected to mention the tunnel or the path to her guests when they had first arrived at the residence, she had asked for this gathering.

As the chamber was too small to hold all of them, Treville, Cahusac, a squad of Red Guards and the Duchesse's family had assembled in the parlour to hear her confession. 

"Last night, after Cardinal Richelieu refused to hear me out in my own dining hall, I made a decision." Troyes shut her eyes briefly as if to steel herself. She had regained some colour since finding the body in the cupboard but she still looked drawn. 

A gust of wind driving the rain against the window made them all look up. The force of the storm made the rain sound hard as hail.

"Start at the beginning," Cahusac said. He sounded as apprehensive as Treville felt.

As soon as Troyes had shown them that tunnel, Treville had _known_ that it had something to do with Richelieu's disappearance. If the kidnappers had entered and left the residence through the tunnel, it would explain why no one had seen them – no one, presumably, apart from Martin Bonheur. Yet, there had been no sign of Richelieu or Aramis when they had searched it.

"I told you of the men and women who had hoped for an audience with the Cardinal." Troyes paused. "I saw a great opportunity pass by to make His Eminence aware of the effects his policies have on my Protestant subjects."

Treville's skin prickled.

"What did you do?"

"I believed that if his Eminence were confronted with them here, without warning, without an opportunity to make excuses, he would have to listen." 

"You invited them here? Through that tunnel?" 

Most of Cahusac's guards were out there now with a handful of musketeers, searching the clearing and the tunnel for any clues to discern whether the kidnappers had come through that way and where Aramis and Richelieu had been taken. But weeks of uninterrupted heat had made the soil become so hard-packed that an entire cavalry regiment might have passed through that place without leaving a single hoof-print, and now that it had started to rain their search had become even more difficult as what few tracks might have been there were washed away.

The soldiers had even ventured into the forest on the path leading away from the clearing and to the village, but as the storm had become more violent they had been forced to retreat back to the tunnel. As much as it tore Treville up to curtail the search, sending his men into the woods in this weather was akin to murder.

"The night the Cardinal refused my offer, I sent word to them that I would arrange for them to meet His Eminence at the residence. Bonheur had been instructed to open the passage for them."

"Aunt!" 

Troyes did not react to Saint-Rémy's cry of dismay. She looked at Treville, imploring him to believe her. "They meant to talk."

"But they did more than just talk."

A deep sigh filled the Duchesse's breast. She did not reply. 

"If they killed once, we must assume they won't shy from killing again." The words stuck to the roof of Treville's mouth and he had to pry them loose with his tongue one by one. He remembered the way Bonheur's body had looked stuffed into that cupboard like a broken doll. He couldn't bear to think of Richelieu or Aramis discarded like that.

"They are decent people. I don't know how to explain what happened."

Treville's lips twitched. Troyes' and his idea of _decent_ people differed widely. The way Bonheur had been murdered – strangled with some kind of ligature – and the way his body had been disposed of attested to a cold-bloodedness that made Treville shudder.

"So you know them well?" Cahusac asked. 

"I promised them they would always be safe in Troyes."

"Would you risk the entire Duché to protect traitors?" All eyes moved to Ligny. The Sieur looked scandalised. "Would you risk Hugo's inheritance over this? Tell them what you know!"

A pained expression crossed the Duchesse's face. Outside, the wind drove the rain against the window in sheets.

"Don't make this worse, Your Grace," Cahusac added. "If they attacked the Cardinal, they forfeited any right to your protection."

"They merely intended to talk. They were concerned for the safety of their community. I cannot believe they would harm His Eminence. They have been nothing but loyal—"

"Your Grace." Treville stepped closer. "If you want us to believe that you were ignorant of these people's intentions towards the Cardinal, you must tell us their names."

Troyes looked him straight in the eyes. "What fate awaits them if I tell you?"

"That depends on whether they took the Cardinal."

Troyes shut her eyes briefly. "At least you are honest, Captain." Taking a long breath, she brushed off the hand Saint-Rémy had put on her shoulder.

"The men and women I invited here are cloth-makers, smiths, jewellers. All of them tradesmen, all of them well-respected in their community."

"Those would be the Huguenots you told me of?"

The Duchesse nodded.

"Half of them have been here since the Wars of Religion. Their families fled here. The others — "she paused as another surge of rain beat against the windows – "they came here more recently. From the Languedoc and La Rochelle."

Treville felt himself grow cold. "Veterans?"

"And widows."

"How could you be so reckless?" Ligny hissed. "If anyone has a reason to hold a grudge against Cardinal Richelieu it's those people. Do you have any idea what you have done by conspiring with them? What you have done to our home? To our nephew?"

"Enough!" Saint-Rémy did not appear to appreciate his uncle's concern and Ligny shut his mouth in open surprise at being told off by his nephew. 

"She didn't intend for any of this happen," Saint-Rémy continued, quieter. His cheeks glowed.

"I did not _conspire_ with them!" The Duchesse's eyes flashed with betrayal as she glowered at her brother. Not even when Cahusac had put her under house arrest had Treville seen her display this much emotion. "I invited them here to petition His Eminence, nothing more."

"You think His Majesty cares about that?" Ligny snapped. "You helped them abduct his First Minister!"

"The King—" the Duchesse broke off and looked at Treville.

"What is His Majesty going to do?"

Treville was stumped for words as the realisation hit him that he would have to tell the King, who had lost his father to a Protestant assassin's knife, that he had lost his most trusted friend to the same Huguenots who had given him so much cause for grief over the course of his young reign.

Since he had ascended to the throne, Richelieu had shielded King Louis from everything from dull council sessions to foreign plots. He had betrayed the Queen Mother and all of her powerful marshals to support her neglected son. 

Richelieu could deny it all he wanted, but King Louis loved him, and his loss was going to devastate him. His Majesty wasn't going to listen to any excuses from Troyes _or_ Treville if Richelieu had come to any harm.

"I offered my help to search for His Eminence and your musketeer." Troyes was beginning to sound alarmed. "I told you of my involvement in this affair of my own free will. You must recognise that."

"Would you have told us of your Protestant visitors if your man hadn't been murdered?" Cahusac asked.

Troyes froze. "I went down to that chamber to see if Bonheur had let them in after he had failed to report back to me. I didn't mean to alarm you unnecessarily, since there would have been nothing to tell you if I had found my guests still waiting to be let in and Monsieur Bonheur merely negligent of his duty."

"You should have told us of the tunnel when we asked you to grant us access to the entire estate."

"I already told you it must have slipped my mind. It is just a supply tunnel and it is blocked from both ends when it isn't in use."

"But you remembered it well enough when you invited the Huguenots."

The Duchesse continued to return Cahusac's glare. "I told you everything I know about this affair."

"How did you manage to leave your apartments unnoticed?" Treville asked. His shoulders sagged when Troyes hesitated to answer. A day ago, he had been prepared to trust her.

_What else was she keeping from them?_

"There is a concealed passage leading downstairs from my dressing room. As it can only be accessed through my private chambers I didn't think it was necessary to mention it."

"Is there anything else you'd like to add?" Cahusac asked. He shared a look with Treville, but it was too brief for Treville to gather its meaning. "Perhaps about the Spanish arms?"

Troyes blinked and Treville stopped breathing.

"I don't believe I follow," the Duchesse said. "What Spanish arms?"

"The guns of Spanish manufacture that were brought into your Duché through Sedan."

"You must be mistaken." Troyes looked as surprised as she had been when the King had had announced his plans to take the court to her summer residence and Treville didn't know how to feel about it.

"We intercepted one such shipment not an hour's ride from this residence," Cahusac said, "and the men in charge of transporting the weapons told the investigating musketeers that they were to deliver their cargo into the hands of your servants."

"Then these people have lied to you! I know nothing of this!" Troyes looked at her brother and nephew. Perhaps she hoped they would speak up in her defence, but Ligny merely regarded his sister with a stern, inquiring gaze while Saint-Rémy appeared frozen.

She turned back to Treville and Cahusac. "Ask any man or woman in my house. They will all tell you the same: we are not being armed by the Spanish or Sedan, or anyone else."

"I didn't say _you_ were being armed," Cahusac said "Perhaps you are distributing the arms to their intended recipients."

The Duchesse looked as though she was going to reply, but she stopped herself. Her eyes settled on Treville, dark and hard like granite.

"So this is what you came here for. Tell me the truth: Was there ever going to be a hunt?"

"There _is_ going to be a hunt – should you be found innocent." And _if_ they found the Cardinal alive.

As Treville looked around to gauge the room's reaction to his words he could see understanding dawn in Saint-Rémy's eyes – along with a look of hurt – and he couldn't help but think that Richelieu would be pleased.

"This is absurd," Ligny snapped. "What reason could my sister have to collaborate with Spain?"

Treville licked his lips. "Your Grace, you told me your subjects don't feel safe in His Majesty's kingdom."

The Duchesse's face darkened. She had told Treville of the Huguenots' concerns in confidence, but unfortunately for her, his personal honour mattered little to him compared to the lives of Richelieu and Aramis. 

"Please, Your Grace," Treville began, "you already suspected we didn't come here for a hunt. That is why you failed to bring up the tunnel when we first arrived here. In case you needed to make use of it for your own safety."

For a long moment Troyes regarded him with an icy glare, then she sank into a chair, hands gathered in her lap. 

"I thought you had come here for the keep. His Majesty seemed to imply—"

"So you _did_ have a reason to fear the Cardinal?"

Treville sent Cahusac a heated look for interrupting the Duchesse, but the fresh accusation loosened her tongue.

"It is true that the Huguenots feel apprehensive about his Eminence's designs for Troyes. How could they not after His Majesty stripped them of their means to defend themselves on the Cardinal's advice?"

"They rebelled!"

"And they were punished for it! Why continue to stoke their fears?"

"You believed the Cardinal came here for the keep," Treville interrupted. "Is that also what the Huguenots believe?"

Cahusac scowled. "Why should His Eminence's policies regarding the keep concern the Huguenots? Unless they intend to seize it?" Outside, the wind howled. "Or have you given them reason to believe you would support them in another uprising?"

"For which I could use Spanish arms?" Troyes' lips twisted into a haughty smile. "If you must know, my Protestant Subjects have little faith that, should his Kingdom be attacked, His Majesty will prioritise the defence of a Duché with as many protestant inhabitants as Troyes. And what of the threats from within? You spoke of Spanish arms being smuggled into the Duché. If you speak true, if someone nearby is planning an armed uprising, how is Troyes supposed to resist such schemes without defences? The Cardinal may argue that the keep is unnecessary, a danger even, but the Huguenots don't share his point of view."

Treville frowned. The King's Edict of Grace following the recent Huguenot uprising had stripped them of their right to arm themselves and to garrison and fortify their towns. It was natural that His Majesty's designs for the duché that had taken them in would unsettle them, but it was no excuse for kidnapping Richelieu and Aramis.

"How do _you_ feel about the Cardinal's policies?" Treville asked.

"I can only repeat you are not going to find the arms you are looking for here." They watched each other silently, until Troyes sighed. "I meant to enable a conversation between the Cardinal and my subjects that would allay their fears regarding their safety in His Majesty's kingdom, nothing more." She clasped her hands. "But if you will not believe me, I'm afraid I cannot help you."

Treville shut his eyes. It was obvious that this line of questioning wouldn't lead them any further.

"Tell us the names of the men and women you invited here today."

The Duchesse nodded. "All I ask is that you do not hold my family responsible for my mistakes."

Treville suppressed a sigh. "You know I cannot do that." Traitors were punished harshly, to deter others from following in their footsteps. Should the King find the Duchesse guilty of treason, the crown was going to seize her land and titles, leaving nothing for her family to inherit once she was executed. 

Troyes straightened her back. "I am afraid I do not know each name by heart, but I will make a list."

"Make them _write_ their petition next time," Ligny muttered, but nobody paid him any attention.

Treville breathed in deeply. "How many are there?"

"Half a dozen."

"Trained men?" 

Troyes grimaced. "You will not find a man or woman who survived La Rochelle who did not learn to fight in some way."

As though it were aware of her ominous words, the wind picked up again, and Treville was reminded of what Ligny had said.

_If anyone has a reason to hold a grudge against Cardinal Richelieu it's those people._

Richelieu had led the King's forces to war against La Rochelle, and while he hadn't been directly responsible for the atrocities committed by the King's Catholic generals in the Languedoc, he hadn't been able to prevent them.

Treville could not afford to dwell on the implications, but he was unable to stop the dread pooling in his stomach.

The kidnappers hadn't left a note. And there had been blood on the floor.

  


* * *

  


Richelieu tried to keep a sense of where his captors were taking him, but the futility of his efforts became more apparent with every step. At first, they had followed a path through the woods, overgrown but still discernible, but Marais had made them abandon it before long to lead them through the brush and across the sea of fallen leaves between the trees on a route known only to him.

More than once Richelieu stumbled. It was even harder trying to keep his footing while hiking through the forest than it had been when he had been pushed and dragged through the blind darkness of the tunnel. He wasn't used to taking long walks anywhere but in palace gardens. Already his legs were beginning to feel heavy and stiff, and the lacquered slippers he had put on this morning to search the residence for Treville weren't made for marching over gnarly roots and broken branches. He felt every bit of lumpy ground through their thin soles and he was helpless to do anything but wince and whimper into his gag as they rubbed the skin off his heels.

He wasn't made for marching any more than his shoes were. 

And then it started to rain.

The first few drops that fell on his face were so soft that he barely noticed them, but it wasn't long until he heard the first roll of thunder. The wind picked up as the temperature dropped and the initial patter of rain turned into a deluge.

His captors pulled their hoods and hats down over their faces, but none of them offered Richelieu any protection from the cold rain. Without a cloak and only his zucchetto and the small cape of his soutane to shield him, the Cardinal's hair, his stockings and sleeves soon clung to his skin. He quickly found that his shoes offered even less purchase on the wet ground than they had before and, unable to wipe the rain from his eyes, every slope of the ground and every lump or hole in the forest floor took him by surprise. The gag prevented him from cursing every time he slipped, but his captors ended up doing it for him whenever they stumbled because of him.

The heavy boughs above them groaned as they swayed in the wind, threatening to come crashing down at any moment. Again and again thunder cracked directly above them, loud and sharp as a gunshot, causing the men and women to flinch and duck as though their useless instincts could somehow save them from the storm.

Wet, tiring fast, and possibly bleeding in his shoes, Richelieu was beginning to hope his captors would leave him behind to rush to safety, but although he was slowing them down, they never stopped. They half dragged, half carried him forward, and the groaning and shrieking of the wood around them appeared to only make them go faster. 

Eventually, they reached the cabin. The building appeared before them like a mirage, illuminated by a flash of lightning. The dark vines and moss clinging to its roof and walls made it appear more like a witch house than anything belonging to the world of man. 

Richelieu heard Marais shout something, but he couldn't make out the words over the noise of the rain hitting branches and leaves and the continuous roll of thunder. But it was more likely the cracking thunder and the prospect of a dry room than the words of their leader that gave the group fresh strength for the final push towards the hut. Richelieu's feet flew over the threshold as they hauled him inside.

It was dark in the cabin, its windows were shuttered, and although its walls blocked the wind and the rain, the noise of the storm sounded undiminished. If his captors expelled words of relief, Richelieu didn't hear them.

They didn't even take the time to throw off their dripping hats or cloaks before they dragged him towards a room in the back of the cabin, and Richelieu allowed himself to be led. With numb limbs and soul, he no longer possessed the presence of mind to pay attention to anything beyond the groaning of the battered forest and the violent pattering of rain against the roof and the shuttered windows.

When his captors finally let go of him, Richelieu sagged against the nearest wall. Tears of joy streaked his cheeks as he sank to the floor, glad to be able take the weight of his sore feet. He didn't make a sound as his captors removed his gag, allowing him to finally rest his aching jaw and his lips were too numb from the cold to reliably form words anyway.

He didn't fight his captors when they took his tied-up hands and attached another rope to secure him to a metal ring sticking out from the heavy crate sitting next to him. He merely rested his head against the crate and closed his eyes.

They threw a woollen blanket over him, covering him from chest to toe, but Richelieu failed to react until, just above the ceaseless drumming of the rain, he heard their footsteps recede and the door fall shut.

He took a deep breath.

The blanket smelled of dust, but at least it was dry.

Where had they taken him? He did not know. Why had they taken him? They hadn't spoken a single word to him.

He breathed out. He listened to the rain. It sounded much louder now than it had in the forest. As it ceaselessly battered against the shutters, it was even louder than the thunder.

How long had the storm been going? How long had they marched through the forest to get to this miserable place?

"Your Eminence?"

Richelieu screwed his eyes shut tight. Of course they had also removed Aramis' gag.

"Are you… well?"

Richelieu lifted his hands to rub his temples as he felt the precursor of a fresh headache stir behind his brow. The rope securing him to the crate was just long enough.

"I have been kidnapped. Does that answer your question?"

"You didn't seem to hold up very well in the woods, but I'm sorry for showing concern."

Richelieu glared into the gloomy corner where Aramis was sitting. His feet hurt, his head ached, the clammy ropes chafed his wrists and he was cold and dripping, but Aramis' heated words revived him more effectively than any proper fire could, save, perhaps, for that same musketeer's funeral pyre. 

"Your tendency to concern yourself unnecessarily with the lives of your betters is exactly why we are here."

Aramis grimaced. "No need to thank me so cordially for saving your life."

Richelieu pulled at the rope that bound him to the crate. "What a fine job you did saving me. Every day I am reminded why the King considers you musketeers his elite."

"Perhaps if you hadn't told your guards to take my weapons and then sent them away, you wouldn't have had to rely on me stepping in front of a gun—"

"I was supposed to let them stay to listen to your misguided ranting?"

"Why not? Why _shouldn't_ they know who they're working for?"

"I see." Richelieu rubbed his sore jaw. He could feel the bruise Aramis had put there. "I see that _you_ still don't see a single thing. You still think this is about _me_. Do you know what I would have had to do to those Red Guards if they had heard another word of that conversation?"

"If you'd rather kill them than let them know that the man they're sworn to protect is a murderer, that is _your_ choice."

"You have long abandoned any moral high ground you might have held!" Richelieu snapped. "This is about _your_ crime! Think what they might have learned about _Her Majesty_! Just the knowledge, no – just the _idea_ in their heads of a treason of this magnitude poses a threat of untold proportions to the entire kingdom. A rumour that reaches the right ears is as deadly as an assassin's knife to a monarchy." He regarded Aramis coldly. "But if you possessed enough sense to concern yourself about the harm you caused, you wouldn't have come to me today." 

"My concern is for Her Majesty!" Aramis stirred as though he meant to rise, but he stopped abruptly, sinking back against the wall. He had to be tethered to something as well, even though Richelieu couldn't make out what it was. The musketeer, too, had been given a blanket to cover himself with, but it looked as torn-up as though a family of mice had been living in it until recently and had started to eat parts of it. But despite the shabby sight Aramis made in his makeshift bandage, now soaked with rain, and his half-eaten blanket didn't lessen the strength of the emotion in his words.

"Why did you stop these people from killing me if my love is so dangerous? I heard you when I regained consciousness at the residence. All your problems would have been solved if you had let them kill me."

"Not _all_ of them." Richelieu cast a long look around the chamber and pulled the blanket higher. He was sore and cold and his feet hurt. He would have liked to take off his wet shoes, but he couldn't reach them with his bound hands and he was damned if he tried kicking them off in front of Aramis.

"Then why?"

The musketeer was frowning. He didn't look like he would believe Richelieu if he told him that, against all appearances, he didn't believe in killing without necessity. The Cardinal, a pious priest with a thought to spare for the Lord's gift of life? Who would believe it?

Richelieu himself wasn't sure what the whole truth was.

Richelieu might as well have told him that he had urged the kidnappers to spare Aramis because _Treville_ cared. It would have sounded about as believable to the musketeer.

"I begged them to spare you to see if they would listen."

"You— What?" Words abandoned the musketeer.

"There's no unity between them. Marais wanted you dead, but the _woman_ ," Richelieu twisted his lips in derision, "showed concern for you, and the rest of his men were hesitant to kill you. I wanted to see how deep the rift is."

"Do you ever look at someone without thinking about how you can manipulate them?"

"As long as our captors are at a difference concerning their plans for us, they cannot act on those plans." Richelieu glowered. "I should have thought even a musketeer would be able to see the advantage in that. Besides, I could as you the same question" – he paused to steady his voice – "why did you step between me and that gun if anything I do is so despicable to you?"

"Force of habit. I am a guard. But I will take caution not to let it happen again."

Richelieu snorted scornfully, but even though it was dark and the musketeer probably couldn't see his face, he looked away and the chamber was silent again – as silent as it could be with the rain outside.

Richelieu pulled at the rope that bound him to the crate. His feet were itching in his damp stockings, but there was nothing he could do about it.

"I also believed my chances of survival were better with you alive," he said. "Perhaps I was wrong."

Aramis said nothing.

  


* * *

  


"The path by the clearing," Treville said. "You told us it leads to the village?"

"Yes," Troyes said. She was still seated in that high-backed chair in her parlour, looking ashen. "The villagers use it to make their deliveries."

Treville swallowed. His throat felt too tight. "Where else does it lead?"

"Nowhere else. The tunnel was never meant to be widely known."

"So they likely took Aramis and the Cardinal to the village?"

"If they stayed on the path…" 

"But nothing would have stopped them from making their own way through the forest," Treville finished.

"Nothing but their own caution," the Duchesse said, taking a look out of the window. It was early in the afternoon, but the storm clouds darkened the sky.

Aramis and Richelieu couldn't have been taken long before the storm had broken. If the kidnappers had taken them deep into the forest, if they were still out there…

"They abducted the First Minister," Cahusac said. "They don't strike me as people who heed caution."

Treville tore his eyes away from the large windows. "What else is out there in the woods?"

"Nothing." Troyes looked confused. "There are other paths through the forest of course, such as the one you arrived on, but none of them lead anywhere near that tunnel."

"Where _do_ those paths lead?"

"They lead to the residence and to the village. Eventually some of them lead back onto the road to Troyes and the other towns nearby." She paused, thinking. "And, of course there are the trails used by the woodsmen."

Treville raised his head. Woods this close to civilisation were never just woods. All kinds of men lived and worked in the forest all year round: charcoal burners, wood cutters, swineherds, rafters. And although their dwellings would be solitary and small they could provide shelter from the storm.

"Would the villagers know how to reach the woodsmen's dwellings from that clearing by the tunnel?"

Troyes hesitated and briefly looked at her family as if for affirmation.

"It is possible," Ligny said, "if they know the woods very well. But I reckon they might have gotten lost in the storm. "

Treville gritted his teeth. He didn't like to imagine Richelieu and Aramis losing their way in those expansive woods even in fine whether and without the company of probably very nervous kidnappers.

"We must speak to the woodsmen. Even if the Huguenots didn't manage to reach them, they might have seen or heard something," he said. "Once the storm has let up."

Outside, the wind howled.

"I doubt you could heart hear a cannon shot in this weather if it fired right next to you," Cahusac said.

Determined not to let his hope die, Treville ignored him.

"Are there any other places in the woods that could provide them with shelter?" he asked. "Some place more remote, where they wouldn't have come across any woodsmen? Are there any cabins lying empty?"

Troyes shook her head. Again, she looked to her family for confirmation.

Ligny cleared his throat. "All the cabins should still be inhabited at this time of year. At least the ones that are commonly known to the villagers and woodsmen. If the Huguenots found shelter in the woods, they will have been noticed."

"What do you mean by the ones _commonly known_?" Cahusac asked.

"These woods are large," Ligny said. "I don't believe anyone can claim to know every inch of them. The woodsmen tend to use the same dwellings year after year out of convenience as much as for their own safety. If any dwellings have fallen out of use over the decades, they are forgotten, the paths overgrown, and I doubt that what's left of their walls would offer much shelter."

"You must understand, Captain." Troyes looked from her brother to Treville with a thoughtful expression. "The woods can be dangerous, even disregarding bad weather or the game His Majesty hopes to hunt here. I am not aware of any such troubles presently, but in his time, my father did have a fair share of brigands to contend with – and worse. Poachers, marauders, deserters – the wars brought the darkest representatives of mankind even to our duché and they found an equally dark ally in those woods."

A moment of silence followed the Duchesse's words. Next to her, Saint-Rémy stirred, but he said nothing.

"If that is all…" Cahusac straightened and looked at Treville. "As soon as the storm lets up we'll have to see what is in the woods for ourselves."

This time, Saint-Rémy spoke up. "Wait—" He exchanged a long look with his uncle.

Whatever it was he meant to convey, Ligny appeared to take the hint and turned towards the captains. "These woods are large," he said, "so allow me to repeat my offer: Our men can help you in your search. I can lead you to some of the woodmen's cabins myself."

"Thank you. We will consider your offer," Treville said, himself not certain whether he was telling a lie. The Sieur's offer seemed earnest enough, and they could use help finding the woodmen's cabins, but if the Duchesse was involved in the kidnapping, using her men might hinder them as much as help them, and, much more damning, Treville thought he had seen the briefest of frowns cross Saint-Rémy's face.

He turned back to Cahusac. "We must assume that the Huguenots took shelter _somewhere_. Our first order should be to search the village and look in on the woodsmen."

Troyes frowned. "I should like to think that even the least of my subjects would think twice before offering shelter to kidnappers."

"The kidnappers probably didn't give them a chance," Cahusac said and once more Treville was reminded of the Duchesse's servant they had found strangled and stuffed into a closet.

Whatever their search revealed, if they found anything, he didn't expect it to be pleasant.


	11. Chapter 11

Assuming the Huguenots had taken their captives back to the village had been a long shot, but Treville didn't realise how much he had hoped it was true until he returned to the residence emptyhanded. 

He stopped only long enough to shake the rain out of his hat and dismiss his men before he trudged upstairs with heavy steps and muddy boots.

The musketeers watching over his chambers informed him that there was a plate of food waiting for him, but just the thought of eating was enough to make Treville's stomach turn. He handed the musketeers his dripping cloak and continued down the hall until he found himself in front of Richelieu's apartments. The Red Guards allowed him to enter without protest. They weren't the ones who had to clean up his muddy footprints, and without Richelieu there, they didn't see a need to stand on protocol.

Treville didn't know what he was looking for as he surveyed the messy office. The Red Guards had already searched the apartment for clues and found nothing. It had to be desperation as much as professional pride that made Treville proceed into the bedroom to look for anything they might have missed.

The Cardinal's bedroom looked as though not a single servant had set foot in it the entire morning: The bed was unmade, a washcloth had been thrown carelessly over the water basin, and the fire was out. 

Treville also noticed that the black-and-red cassock he had folded up before leaving was gone and he hoped that this meant Richelieu had at least been able to dress before he had been taken.

This was the man who had planned to assassinate their Queen. Such monsters lived in the Cardinal's head day to day, such enormous thoughts, and yet… and yet… Treville dropped onto the edge of the bed with a sigh, running his gloved hands over the sheets before looking down at his own muddy boots. He hoped that Richelieu was somewhere warm and dry.

The storm was gradually beginning to let up, but it was still raining, and while the Cardinal was capable of staying awake for days on end, working hard without a break whenever the affairs of state required it, he always paid for such feats of endurance with his health the moment the crisis had passed. He simply no longer possessed the constitution to be out in a storm in his nightshirt.

Lost in thought, Treville didn't hear Cahusac enter the Cardinal's apartments until he called out to him. 

"Captain Treville?"

"In the bedroom."

He got off the bed just before Cahusac stepped into view. If the Red Guard noticed that the sheets looked damp, he didn't mention it. 

"You've been to the village. Any news?"

Treville felt like sitting down again, but the fact that Cahusac had come to ask him personally instead of simply questioning the Red Guards who had accompanied him at least confirmed that Cahusac was serious about cooperating.

"Our suspects haven't been seen by their families and neighbours since the morning, and none of the villagers could tell us where they might have gone."

"Of course, the villagers could be lying."

"I am certain they are." Treville rubbed his eyes. The villagers hadn't been told about the First Minister's abduction, as the matter was too politically charged to make it public. But even though they didn't exactly know what had transpired at the residence, they had to have guessed that the suspects were in serious trouble when they had found King's Musketeers on their doorstep in the company of the Cardinal's Red Guards.

"My— our men are staying in the village in case they become more talkative."

"But it is more likely they will come across His Eminence and your man than a cooperative villager?"

Treville didn't need to answer.

"Perhaps they should have reminded the villagers what the repercussions for harbouring kidnappers are."

Treville frowned. "They're Huguenots. They know." 

"You mean they are used to feeling threatened by the King's men." Cahusac's bitter tone reflected perfectly how Treville felt. 

Most of the villagers had merely been unhelpful. Whether their reticence stemmed from true ignorance of their neighbours' crimes and whereabouts or misguided loyalty had yet to be established.

But the others…

During his career, Treville had come to know silence in many painful forms. There was the guilty silence of a musketeer about to be disciplined. There was the suffocating silence of a parent, child or brother-in-arms trying to hold back the grief upon receiving news of their loved one's death. Treville had waded through the thick stillness of an enemy camp before negotiating an armistice. As a prisoner of war he had known the wordless, oppressive silence of captors and captives too mournful and too exhausted to voice their anger and their frustration away from the battlefield.

But never before had he encountered a silence that had been so uncomfortably personally directed at him as when he had knocked on the doors of those villagers and seen their eyes widen in shock when they had recognised the cut of his cloak.

The memory made him shudder.

Although there had been thousands of soldiers fighting in His Majesty's army to suppress the Huguenot uprisings, there was no regiment in the entirety of France that embodied the King's rule as completely as the King's Musketeers. Every Frenchmen knew the stories told of their accomplishments – accomplishments that included the siege of La Rochelle. They had led King Louis' victory procession into the conquered city, and the survivors of that siege had not forgotten them, and _their_ stories, too, had spread among their brothers-in-faith.

"I spoke to Troyes again while you were gone."

Treville raised his head when Cahusac spoke up. 

"Most of the villagers have never been to La Rochelle or the Languedoc, but there's a strong sense of community among them. I'm afraid we will learn nothing in that village." Cahusac paused. "Was it a mistake to refuse the Duchesse's help? The villagers obviously have a lot of faith in her. They might be more willing to talk to her than us."

"No. You made the right decision. Until we know more we can't trust her or her men any more than the villagers."

Cahusac nodded. "Yes, you are right."

"Any developments here?" Treville swallowed. "Any word from the kidnappers?"

What confidence Treville's affirmation had instilled in the Guard Captain vanished. "No." Cahusac turned towards the windows. "But my guards are out there, searching – as long as it takes." 

_What else could they do?_

Treville leaned against a bedpost, defeated, and they were quiet for a moment, occupied by their failure. 

"Perhaps we're in luck." Cahusac tore Treville out of his ruminations. "It would be foolish of them to go to the village, but perhaps the weather made them realise that braving the storm would be even more foolish?"

Treville tended not to put his faith in luck, but if the kidnappers had taken Aramis and Richelieu to the village, it meant they were now surrounded by Red Guards and musketeers, which _might_ force them to start negotiating. But if they had ventured into the woods—

"Do you think they're out there in the rain?"

Treville followed Cahusac's gaze out of the window. Although the rain clouds were beginning to disperse, daylight was fading. Soon it would be too dark to continue their search of the woods.

"If they ventured into the woods at the storm's height—"

"We must assume the kidnappers took shelter with them," Treville said, but Cahusac was echoing his own fears. They still had no clue as to what the kidnappers had planned for their victims, but they did know what a storm could do to a wood.

"Are we fooling ourselves?"

Treville looked up. "What do you mean?"

"These woods are too large. Anything could be in there." Cahusac's frowned deepened. "What if they're no longer in the forest?"

"You're having the roads watched."

"Yes, but what if they made it through the forest before we established our patrols? What if they're on horseback—?"

"What are you going to do then?"

Cahusac opened his mouth and shut it again.

"The possibility that we may have already failed is no reason not to try." Treville walked over to Cahusac, making sure to look him in the eyes. "If you are right, if the kidnappers have already slipped through your net, then there is nothing we can do, except admit that we have lost. If you are right, then all we can do is return to Paris and report to His Majesty of what transpired here, waiting for the kidnappers to make their demands."

Perhaps the kidnappers were already on their way to Troyes. Perhaps the storm had forced them to abandon their plans entirely and Aramis and Richelieu were dead.

Treville refused to entertain such thoughts.

Aramis and Richelieu were out there, somewhere, in need of help. If he admitted defeat now, he might as well hand in his commission and hang himself.

"But it is just as likely that they were taken in by woodsmen," he continued, "or that they found some lonely cabin on their own. The woods may _seem_ endless, but there are only so many places for the kidnappers to find shelter." As he said the words he realised that they were true: "They need a place to take shelter from the weather, and moreover, they need a place to hold Aramis and the Cardinal. They can't roam the woods forever."

He put a hand on Cahusac's shoulder. "Going out there, watching the roads and questioning the woodsmen is the best course of action." 

Cahusac gave him a grim smile. "We are going to find them, Captain."

  


* * *

  


There was not much to see in the sparse light that entered through the holes in the rotten shutters and eventually Richelieu gave up trying to make out anything of interest in the chamber. There appeared to be nothing there but crates anyway. He sat back against the wooden cabin wall, resting his head against the crate he was tethered to and tried to make himself as comfortable as he could beneath the old blanket. 

Richelieu didn't know how long he sat there in silence.

After a while, having decided he preferred saving his feet over saving face, he kicked off his shoes to give his damp feet a chance to dry off.

If the musketeer saw him do it, he didn't react.

A furtive glance revealed that Aramis was sitting with his eyes closed, but Richelieu doubted he was asleep. 

How could anyone sleep in this place?

Despite his aching body, despite the beckoning darkness and the drowsiness induced by the steady patter of rain, Richelieu refused to let go of his consciousness. For, if he closed his eyes, what sight would greet him when he opened them again?

If he ever did. 

Richelieu pulled his blanket up to his chin, but it barely warmed him. He was cold and wet and his skin chafed from the damp rope. It had been a long while since he had last heard the roar of thunder, but he could still hear the rain.

He tried listening for any sounds from the adjoining chamber, any hint of what the kidnappers were doing, but to no avail. He hadn't seen hide or hair of them since they had dragged him into this chamber. 

He gathered that they had started a fire in the hearth since he could smell the smoke, and he thought he heard a murmur now and then, but he couldn't make out any words and he might have imagined them. It seemed as though their goal was to forget about their prisoners and let them die of misery. 

So much for the poor, concerned Protestant subjects the Duchesse had wanted him to meet. A pack of traitors, all of them. 

After a moment, he heard Aramis rustle as the musketeer tentatively tugged at his bonds. Richelieu didn't need to look to know what he was doing, as he had seen him test the ropes again and again throughout the day. Although evidently had come of the musketeer's efforts, Richelieu chose not to comment on their futility. Aramis' persistence was strangely comforting to him. The musketeer was as stubborn as his captain, and although most of the musketeers' alleged qualities usually annoyed Richelieu, he wanted to believe that Treville had managed to instil in them at least some of his abilities that could be of use to him now.

But even more than that, he wanted Treville to find them. He wanted to be back in bed with him.

What was Treville going to make of his disappearance? Was he already looking for him? Was he worried about him? Or just about his musketeer?

Taking a deep breath, Richelieu closed his eyes. 

He wished he hadn't fallen asleep last night. He wished he knew why Treville had left.

These last two months without him had been hell. He couldn't afford to think about the possibility that his lover had not forgiven him after all. Not now, not when he needed hope the most. 

Richelieu threw another glance at the door and wondered if perhaps it was the noise of the rain that prevented him from overhearing his captors talk. But when someone finally approached the chamber door, he heard the clicking of the lock and the rattle of the loose doorknob clearly enough.

The door opened to reveal the woman who had made such an impassioned yet useless speech in the clearing. 

Richelieu straightened and, in his corner of the room, Aramis, too, sat up.

For a long moment the woman remained standing in the doorway, a lantern dangling from her wrist and holding what appeared to be two bowls. She frowned at the prisoners wordlessly as if she wondered how she had ended up in this place and what she had done to deserve their company. 

Richelieu felt like he should enlighten her by saying something biting, but he remembered that she had been the only one to voice her opposition to the kidnapping. Antagonising her would be a mistake.

Eventually, the woman spoke. "We made soup," she said. "Thought you might be hungry." She didn't move and Richelieu wondered if she expected them to thank her. "If you don't want it, well – you're not getting anything else."

She finally entered with quick, long strides, placing a bowl and a wooden spoon in front of each prisoner.

As soon as Richelieu smelled the broth his stomach growled. Not even when he had realised that the relic Luca had given him had been poisoned had he felt so betrayed.

He sought the woman's eyes to avoid looking at the food. 

"Thank you," he said, and if his voice was brittle he hoped his words were all the more powerful for it. "You are very kind."

The woman looked away. Walking a few steps, she placed her lantern on a crate near the prisoners. "Just eat," she said and turned towards the door.

"Wait!" 

The woman stood still, slowly turning her frown on Aramis.

"Please!" The musketeer lifted his tied up hands with a wide, beseeching smile. "Madame," he said. The woman's style of dress and the way she wore her hair all indicated she was a married woman.

"How are we supposed to eat?" he asked. "I can barely reach the bowl, let alone pick up the spoon."

The woman gave him a disdainful look. "Wait for the soup to cool and drink it, I don't care."

Aramis' smile faltered and Richelieu wondered if he had misjudged when he had assumed she might be sympathetic towards them.

But she stayed and watched closely as Aramis lowered his eyes and turned his attention towards the bowl. He tried with hands and feet to find a position that would allow him to eat – and failed. 

The woman took the bowl away before he could spill more of its contents all over himself.

"If you waste this there's not going to be anything else."

Aramis raised his tied-up hands again and looked at her helplessly. "I was trying not to."

The woman rolled her eyes, and, with a heavy sigh, she kneeled down next to him and picked up the spoon. 

"I'll feed you."

Aramis raised his eyebrows. It was clearly not what he had intended, but he didn't protest. Before he could say another word, the woman had raised the filled spoon to his lips.

Richelieu could barely believe his eyes as the musketeer allowed himself to be fed. Spoon by spoon, the bowl emptied. Only once did a spoonful of soup spill on the musketeer's uniform, causing to woman to cry out. "Not so fast!"

Aramis even had the presence of mind to look chastised before swallowing the next spoonful, causing a faint smile to tug at the woman's lips. 

"Thank you, Madame," Aramis said when they were done. "I feel much better now."

"Hmph," made the woman, but her expression softened. "I raised two boys, and neither of them made as much of a mess of themselves as you."

"Two boys?" Aramis smiled brightly. "Then they must be as considerate as their mother."

Abruptly, the woman looked away. "Is this a joke to you?"

"No!" Aramis' eyes widened. "But I much prefer sitting here with a full stomach than sitting here hungry, and for that I have you to thank. Not everyone is considerate enough to feed their prisoners."

"Hmph." The woman gave Aramis a long, thoughtful look and the musketeer decided to direct her attention elsewhere.

"But as we talk, the Cardinal's soup is getting cold," he said, sounding far too jolly for Richelieu's liking. "I am certain his table manners surpass mine."

Richelieu swallowed as the woman threw him a challenging look.

"I appreciate your dedication, Madame, but this is hardly necessary," Richelieu said. "If you could simply adjust the length of the rope tying me to this crate, I will be able to manage on my own."

The woman's expression soured. "No. The ropes stay as they are. Accept my help or leave it."

Richelieu considered refusing. He couldn't recall the last time he had eaten a meal not prepared by his own cook and he certainly didn't need to be _fed_ by anyone, let alone his kidnapper.

Just at that moment his stomach growled and he knew there was no use fighting.

"Yes or no?"

"Please," Richelieu said. It took effort not to bite his tongue. 

It was impossible to count the times he had smoothly pretended to be a foreign dignitary's humble friend, feigned ignorance of any offense caused by one of his agents or graciously smiled at tempestuous noblemen whose alliance had to be kept for the moment.

At court, lying through pleasantries and smiling at slights was a game he played to his own rules. At court, once he had reached his goal and the need for pleasantries ended, everyone again knew him to be the master.

But to beg his kidnapper to feed him like a child to achieve no greater goal than filling his stomach?

"Please, I would appreciate your help."

His cheeks burned in anticipation as the woman came over and picked up his bowl. 

At least the soup would help him warm up. It wasn't particularly thick and almost entirely unseasoned, but he patiently waited for more between spoons.

"You never told us your name?"

The spoon came to a halt halfway between the bowl and Richelieu's mouth when Aramis spoke up.

"No," the woman said. 

"May I ask?"

"You may, but I may not answer." She started feeding the Cardinal again, but although her words were stern, a hint of a smile graced her lips.

"Did you bring the food here with you?"

"No."

"Is this your cabin?"

"No."

"Marais'?"

"No, I don't think so." 

"Friend of his?"

"I wouldn't know."

"I was going to warn him about the holes in the shutters, they're—"

"Don't!" 

A mushy piece of carrot dropped onto the Cardinal's soutane as the woman turned to Aramis. "You should know better than to provoke him."

"It's not my intention to get punched again, I promise you. I'd prefer a conversation."

"Well, he doesn't want to talk to you."

"Not even to tell us what he wants from us?"

The woman filled another spoon. "You heard him. He doesn't want anything from you, he wants something from your King."

"You wouldn't happen to know what it is that he wants?" Aramis asked.

The woman stopped what she was doing and Richelieu's appetite waned.

"Yes, I do," she said and filled another spoon. 

"But you don't think he's going to get it," Richelieu said.

"Eat up," the woman said, raising the spoon, but Richelieu had seen her blink as if startled. 

"What do you think will happen when His Majesty hears your friend's demands?"

Her lips pressed to a thin line, the woman dropped the spoon into the bowl and turned to Aramis.

"You're a King's Musketeer," she said slowly. "Were you at La Rochelle?"

"I was." Aramis answered without hesitation and although the soup hadn't been half-bad, Richelieu felt his stomach turn. It hadn't been hard to guess who these people were, considering Marais' outburst on the clearing.

"So was Marais," the woman said. Her voice was heavy with grief. "So was I. So was my husband, and so were my sons."

Silence followed her words. She picked up the bowl and stood up.

"One of my sons is in England now. The other is dead. As is their father."

"I'm sorry," Aramis said, sounding earnest, and Richelieu winced.

"Keep your sympathy." The woman's grieved expression turned bitter. "Who's to say the man who shot them didn't wear a blue cloak such as yours?"

"The musketeers were only one regiment in the King's army at La Rochelle," Aramis began.

"Does it matter?" The woman's eyes flashed. "You were _there_. You killed _someone_ 's son, if not through your musket, then by starvation. And _you_!" She whirled around to face Richelieu. "You led the siege! You could have ended the slaughter!"

"So could your people."

Richelieu forced himself not to flinch as the woman gaped at him. Her knuckles turned white as she clutched the bowl in her hands.

" _You_ took the decision to starve us." She pressed the words out between her teeth. 

"You challenged your King," Richelieu said calmly, although the fury in the woman's eyes made his heart race. Despite the smiles she had exchanged with Aramis, and despite the patience with which she had fed them and answered their questions, this woman was still their jailer and he was still sitting in a dark room, tied to a crate, at the mercy of this woman and her brothers-in-faith.

"It does not absolve you of what you did."

"I never claimed it did." Richelieu said. "You fought to protect an idea dear to you. So did His Majesty, and so did I."

The woman fell silent. Her gaze shifted as she lost herself in her memories, and Richelieu wondered not for the first time what it must have been like to have been there as the Duc de Rohan declared La Rochelle the capital of a Protestant Republic. He tried to imagine the feeling of elation the Protestants must have felt. He knew the sense of invulnerability that only a heart filled with faith could feel.

They must have imagined their city's walls impregnable.

Even as the King's army had surrounded them, their leaders had made them believe they could win this fight, and for a time, it had even looked like they might.

La Rochelle had been the best-fortified city in France and its richest harbour. Its allies in England had pledged their support, and thanks to the privileges won for them by Henri IV, the Protestants had been better armed than any other part of the French populace. 

But to save the rest of his Kingdom, King Louis had not hesitated to destroy its brightest jewel. He had shattered its mighty walls at the end of a yearlong siege that had depleted its riches and throttled its people. 

What must it have felt like, to stand on the walls of La Rochelle and watch the English fleet appear on the horizon only long enough to give the defenders fresh hope before the ships were invariably scattered, again and again? What must it have felt like to watch these sails retreat across the channel for the final time? What had it felt like to watch each and every sortie fail and every attempt at relief be foiled?

Yet the Huguenots had held out in their dying city for nearly fifteen months. 

"We fought for our Lords." The woman's thoughtful expression grew bitter. 

"We would not have been your enemies," she said. "All we wanted was autonomy."

"It is rare that we are perceived as we wish to be." Richelieu fought to suppress a sardonic smile. "Your lords asked the King to give up territories from La Rochelle to the Languedoc so you could found a sovereign state on French soil, and you encouraged every sizeable Protestant town in France to follow your example. Tell me, how did you expect His Majesty would perceive these actions? I assure you, your leaders knew what they provoked when they declared a Protestant republic within the borders of France."

The woman frowned, but her lack of protest implied that she, too, knew that the siege, if not its outcome, had been inevitable. 

She shook her head. "What did you come here for?" She sounded tired. "You should have stayed in Paris."

"Our business is with the Duchesse alone. We didn't come here to threaten you or your community." But even as Richelieu said the words he realised they weren't true. If it was Troyes' intention to start an uprising, the Huguenots living in her duché would be dragged into it, whether they wanted it or not.

With a start, he realised he had no idea what was in the crates he was tied to.

"The Duchesse is our Lady," the woman began, as though she couldn't hear the deafening noise of her captive's racing heart. "Anything that affects the duché concerns us. Many of us came here with nothing after what your King did to our homes. We wouldn't have a community without her." 

Richelieu wet his dry lips. "Do you know what is in those crates?"

He saw the woman's eyes widen as her gaze settled on the crate illuminated by her lamp that rested on top of it.

She looked earnest enough in her confusion, as though armed rebellion couldn't be further from her mind. As though what had happened at the residence had not been the start of an uprising, and as though she was truly seeing the crates for the first time.

"If you don't know, perhaps you should ask Marais, or your _Lady_." 

The woman turned back toward Richelieu with a frown.

"Why?"

"Ask your friend. If I am right about what is in those crates, either _your Lady_ betrayed you, or you betrayed your Lady."

"Then you must be wrong," the woman's tone was sharp, but she looked disturbed. "This cabin doesn't belong to Marais. Why would he know what is stored in here?"

"He led you here through the woods, during a storm. How did he find this place unless he knows it well?"

The woman opened her mouth as if to respond, then shook her head before she tried again. "So what do you think is in there?" She tried to sound as gruff and indifferent as when she had first entered the chamber, but her voice trembled faintly.

"Muskets," Aramis began, having caught on to Richelieu's train of thought, "pistols, probably an arquebus or maybe thirty…"

"No—!" The woman broke off and closed her eyes.

"You must already have been suspicions about the cabin."

The woman regarded him with a look of contempt, but no denial passed her lips. 

Under different circumstances Richelieu might have spoken sarcastically and questioned her decision to run with this dangerous scheme instead of abandoning her companions at the clearing, but as he was sitting on the dusty floor of a remote cabin, tied to a crate probably containing more than enough smuggled Spanish arms to equip a small militia to the teeth, he found that softer words came to him more easily.

"It is simple enough to see that you never wanted any part of this." He raised his bound hands to make his meaning clear.

"I am not going to betray my friends, if that is what you are hoping."

"Marais no longer deserves your loyalty. He forced you into this regrettable situation, but you don't have to commit yourself to it. He doesn't deserve your loyalty."

The woman pressed her lips to a thin line. "You don't know us. You don't know him."

"Did the Duchesse de Troyes order you to capture us?"

"No! She has no part in this."

"But she invited you to the residence? She let you in?"

The woman began to turn away and Richelieu's words grew more hurried. "You know His Majesty cannot give your friend what he wants. You know there will be more bloodshed."

The woman didn't stay to listen to any more. She picked up Aramis' bowl as well and left the chamber.

Her lamp remained, brightly illuminating the crate on which it rested, and Richelieu wondered how long it would take for her to relate all she heard in the chamber to Marais – and what the consequences would be.


	12. Chapter 12

Treville cursed the approaching nightfall that prevented them from continuing their search of the woods. While the Red Guard would keep watch over the roads during the night, searching the forest in the darkness was only going to invite injury or worse, and so, one by one, the men who had been send out to question the woodsmen and search their cabins had started to return to the residence.

Treville received them all personally in the parlour, but none of them had anything of note to report. None of the people they had questioned had seen or heard anything of the kidnappers and none of the dwellings the soldiers had entered had contained anything they shouldn't.

Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan were the last to return, well after the last rays of evening sunlight had faded, and by the time they stepped into the parlour, Treville had already begun to fear that they hadn't been wise enough to break off their search for the night. But although they spared him the additional pain of having to declare them missing as well, it was still heart-rending to see the stoic expressions on their faces barely mask the defeat in their eyes as they made their report. 

They had walked down every path, every trail they could find, knocking on every door, questioning every man and woman they encountered, only to return to the residence at the end of the day with nothing to show for it.

"We will try again tomorrow," Treville said. He told them what he had told Captain Cahusac: that they weren't taking action for action's sake, that concentrating their efforts on the village and the woodsmen was the right thing to do, but he knew it was only a small comfort.

Every time a group of soldiers had returned he hadn't been able to stop himself from hoping that they brought good news, that they had found a trail, or, perhaps that Aramis and Richelieu were with them, but every time he had been disappointed. It was as though the kidnappers and their victims had vanished.

"No word from the kidnappers then?" d'Artagnan asked. 

Treville shook his head and saw their faces fall. 

"This has to be political, they're Huguenots," Porthos said. "Eventually they're gonna have to reach out to us." He looked to the others as if for confirmation.

"We must assume so for the time being," Treville said, trying – but likely failing – for an optimistic smile. He didn't have the heart to tell them that as much as he longed for answers, he also feared the hour the Huguenots made their demands, since whatever they asked for, he knew he wouldn't be able to grant any of it. The First Minister's life – and that of a musketeer – wasn't worth giving back any political power to the Huguenots.

Once the kidnappers stepped forward, the most Treville would be able to do was to ensure they realised this fact later than sooner in the hope of giving the musketeers more time to carry out a rescue.

The musketeers promised to renew their efforts at sunrise. But despite the bravado they displayed as they pledged to make the kidnappers pay, Treville could tell they were unsettled and he hated that he was unable to reassure Porthos and his friends without lying.

As soon as he was alone again with his thoughts, Treville spent a long moment sitting in one of the Duchesse's soft armchairs, staring at the night outside through the windows.

At this time on the previous evening he'd been with Richelieu and for the first time in months the world had made sense again.

That evening he had also promised Richelieu that he would protect him when he met with the Huguenots; and now Richelieu was gone – _taken_ by people who had every reason to wish him harm.

If Treville didn't manage to find him soon…

Taking a deep breath, Treville forced himself to get up. His legs were heavy, but somehow he made it out of the parlour and up the stairs, towards his apartments. He didn't feel like lying down. But perhaps he could do what he had recommended the musketeers to do while they had been stuck in their quarters and pour over what few maps and reports they had of the region until his eyes were sore in the hopes of learning something – anything – they didn't already know that might them help find the kidnappers.

He hadn't expected to find Saint-Rémy on the way.

Although he and Cahusac had allowed the Duchesse's family to move about the residence freely after Troyes' confession, Treville hadn't seen any of them since. 

After the recent revelations it seemed only natural that the Duchesse and her family preferred to remain in the privacy of their own quarters. Perhaps the day's events would make for great dinner conversation one day – if Richelieu and Aramis should be retrieved unharmed – but with things as they were, Treville wasn't distraught not to have been invited to another family dinner.

It was why he was all the more surprised to find Saint-Rémy wandering the halls right outside his quarters. After the disappointment the young man had shown when Treville had revealed the true reason for why they had come to Troyes, he wouldn't have thought Saint-Rémy would risk running into him so soon. But here he was, actually looking surprised to see him.

"Were you on your way to me?" 

Saint-Rémy's startled look turned into a frown. "I didn't think I needed a reason to walk through my aunt's summer residence."

Treville tried not to wince at the young man's harsh tone. What a contrast to his boyish admiration from the day before.

"You lied about why you came here." 

"Yes," Treville said. There was nothing to gain from denying it.

"And the story about the Spanish arms? Is that true, or was it another lie to scare my aunt?"

"No, it's true. Everything else I told you was the truth," Treville said. He felt tired. It seemed that today he was predestined to disappoint everyone. "Your father was my friend and I would have enjoyed teaching you more, but it does appear that our suspicions were correct and that someone here is involved in a Spanish plot directed against the crown. "

"The Huguenots." Saint-Rémy's anger had abated as quickly as it had flared up and he sounded as lost now as he looked. "But Spain is brutally persecuting its Protestant subjects. It just doesn't make any sense."

"I doubt the Spanish agents behind this care much for who they support, as long as the resulting chaos furthers their plans."

Saint-Rémy frowned. "I meant, are you certain the smugglers are colluding with Spain? Why would the Huguenots ever accept their help?"

"The weapons didn't enter the duché directly from Spain. It's possible the Huguenots don't know who they're dealing with." Treville refrained from adding that none of them was sure who was actually behind this plot. 

"But it's treason!" 

As he took in the young man's wide-eyed confusion, Treville was almost ready to believe what Troyes had told him about why she had never taken him to Paris. But there was something other behind this exclamation of outrage than naïveté, something almost rebellious, evident in the grim set of Saint-Rémy's jaw, and Treville was reminded of the look of surprise that had crossed his face when Ligny had told them what he knew about the woodsmen's cabins.

As unlikely as it seemed to Treville that this young boy could be privy to a plot of that magnitude, he wouldn't have lasted 20 years at King Louis' court if he weren't a suspicious bastard.

"Yes," he said.

Saint-Rémy's eyes widened. "I meant— Of course it is!" A faint blush spread across his cheeks. "The Cardinal has disappeared, and poor Bonheur…" He looked away, rubbing his face, and when he looked up again he met Treville's eyes.

"Am I a suspect too?"

"Yes."

There was that grim look of silent fury again. 

"If there is anything you know you should say it," Treville said. "The longer this goes on, the more dangerous it will become for anyone involved."

"What? I— no!" Saint-Rémy blinked at him, startled. "I swear I don't know these people. Not personally. I go to the village sometimes, but I don't know everyone who lives there."

"How about their neighbours?" Treville's heartbeat quickened, inspired by a new idea. "The villagers like you, if you were to make an appeal—"

"To give up one of their own? I doubt _anyone_ could convince them. They would consider it a death sentence." 

"They are not aiding their cause by assisting traitors. Any attack on the First Minister is an attack on the King himself. If they protect the kidnappers, they risk being punished alongside them."

"I can try, if you insist," Saint-Rémy said, sounding anything but confident. "However, I don't think it will do any good."

"You think we'll have more luck with the woodsmen?"

"I couldn't say," Saint-Rémy said, but something in his demeanour shifted, something subtler than the rebellious look Treville had noticed earlier.

"If you want to save these people from the worst, you need to help us end this quickly, before His Majesty becomes involved. Whether this plot fails or succeeds, it's not going to be the Huguenots or your family who profits from it."

"If I _knew_ anything I would tell you. I'm sorry, Captain." Saint-Rémy dropped his gaze and Treville tried not to let his disappointment show. 

"If anything comes to mind—"

"I _will_ tell you." The boy sounded sincere enough to make Treville wonder if he had merely imagined that look in the parlour this afternoon and he decided to try a different approach.

"I spoke to your uncle in the gardens this morning. You had a fight."

"It's true." 

Treville raised his eyebrows. He had expected a denial, but to his surprise, Saint-Rémy merely blushed again.

"So much has happened since then, I can't even recall what it was about."

"You fight often?"

"No! I mean— sometimes." Saint-Rémy took a deep breath. "He's my uncle. He raised me, after—" He broke off, frowning. "He thinks I'm wasting my time at university. I know he's concerned about my status, like my aunt, but—"

"It is frustrating to feel like you can never please him." 

Saint-Rémy looked at Treville, grateful, but that look soon turned into concern. "You didn't say anything to him about what I told you yesterday – about my friends at university?"

Treville shook his head. "No. It's not why I'm here and I won't mention it to anyone unless you want me to."

He knew a thing or two about the length parents were prepared to go to in order to improve their children's social standing, particularly where religion was concerned.

Saint-Rémy sighed in obvious relief, making Treville at least feel somewhat accomplished despite himself. It was not what he had intended when he had begun this line of questioning, but he greatly preferred the young man's gratefulness over his anger, particularly if meant Saint-Rémy might be more forthcoming the next time they talked.

"I should go now," Saint-Rémy said. "I don't mean to keep you from your work."

Treville nodded again. "Good night," he said and a brief smile lit up Saint-Rémy's face.

"Good night."

  


* * *

  


Richelieu awoke to the sound of blood pounding in his ears and he could feel himself sweat as though he had awoken from a nightmare. But when his mind had shaken off the haze of sleep and he realised where he was, he saw that the nightmare was still before him. 

He was still as caught as the day before. He had not been miraculously rescued during the night, and the dusty chamber in the Huguenots' cabin looked to him no less inviting on a sunny morning than it had been on a rainy afternoon. 

How could he have fallen asleep in this place?

With trembling hands, he drew his blanket closer and took a deep breath.

He had stayed awake until long after the lantern had burned out and the last of the sparse light entering through the broken shutters had faded. His bones had been aching from the damp cold, and his skin had itched as the rope binding his wrists had dried. He remembered flinching at every noise outside the chamber door, waiting for the woman to return or Marais to storm the chamber, steaming with anger. What would they have to say to him when they came, and what they would _do_? 

His back ached as he tried to straighten and sit up against the wall and he could feel tears of frustration spring forth as he pressed his eyes shut. 

What a contrast to the night before. For a few hours, after confessing to Treville, he'd truly allowed himself to believe the soft words and the firm touch that had told him his fears were unfounded. Now, as he sat huddled on the floor of this shadowy witch house, wrapped in this pathetic blanket and waiting for the pack of delusional Huguenots in the adjoining chamber to decide his fate, it seemed to him as though that night belonged to another lifetime.

He strained to listen for any sign of what his kidnappers were doing, but the cabin was silent and his mind was once again filled with the dream-voice of Concini, distantly, as though across a foggy field.

 _'They're Huguenots, little bishop'_ , he heard the spectre say. _'They won't even grant you a last confession before they kill you'._

Richelieu shut his eyes again, as if that could hold in the tears.

_Lord in heaven..._

He had to have faith. He had to believe that Treville was looking for him, and that he had forgiven him. Treville wouldn't abandon him to his enemies. Not like this. 

_'He abandoned you to the musketeers'._

Not _again_.

"Good morning, Your Eminence." 

Richelieu's neck creaked as he reluctantly raised his head to Aramis' greeting. Not trusting his parched throat to allow him to tell the musketeer to shut up, he contended himself with frowning at him.

They had been given water only once the previous evening.

"You haven't missed anything. It appears our hosts are late delivering our breakfast."

But despite his facetious words the musketeer sounded tired and he fell silent again when Richelieu failed to respond. At present, Richelieu was more interested in watching the dust motes gently floating in the beams of sunlight falling in through the holes in the shutters than in conversation.

 _Of course_ Richelieu wanted to flee and of _course_ he would need Aramis for that. But for the moment, he couldn't stand to look at the musketeer or even hear him speak. Wasn't Aramis supposed to be the elite? Why then was sitting tied up in the corner of this rotten chamber, just as caught as the Cardinal was?

Richelieu looked around the chamber. What was in the crates and barrels stored in here? Was there any chance these weren't the cursed weapons that had made the King sent them on their ill-fated quest? 

Was it here that his story would end? In a dusty chamber, in the company of the least of the musketeers, at the will of these Huguenots whose names history would not remember – so far away from all that mattered.

Richelieu's ruminations were interrupted as the door opened to admit a distinctly unhappy looking Huguenot. Over the years, the Cardinal had seen discontent expressed in many forms. He had seen it on the faces of disappointed ambassadors, stoic prisoners of war and in the posture of the Queen Mother when she had learned of her banishment – twice. But until now Richelieu hadn't known it was possible for an entire body to frown.

Aramis asked the Huguenot about breakfast in the same polite manner that he had used with the woman the day before, but he was ignored.

The Huguenot wordlessly removed the musketeer's bandage as the wound was no longer bleeding and they were given water again. Richelieu drank it without a word of complaint. At last his throat no longer felt like it would rip open if he attempted to talk. 

For the briefest moment, because a mind like his could not suppressed, he wondered what had caused the Huguenot's foul mood, and whether it could be exploited. But he was too exhausted to start a long conversation as he had with the woman, and this man, much like the other one who had given them water in the evening, didn't look like he was in a mood to talk anyway.

Shortly thereafter the man returned along with an equally dour-looking companion to take Richelieu and Aramis outside to relieve themselves – one by one, and under armed guard. As refusing would have meant a greater indignity, Richelieu endured this ordeal as well, storing it away as another unpleasant memory until the day of retribution eventually came. He made no sound as he was pulled onto his sore feet. No word of protest passed his lips as one of the Huguenots helped him arrange his soutane, because he knew much greater indignities were in store for his kidnappers once he was free again.

Planning their executions in his head didn't save his pride or make the rough rope around his wrists chafe any less, but at least it gave the pain a purpose.

Not long after they had been returned to their dusty chamber the door opened again. Although he had grown more than weary of the Huguenots' hospitality, Richelieu raised his head and found himself looking up at Marais. There was enough daylight falling in through the rotten shutters for Richelieu to see the Huguenot clench his jaw.

It took effort not to flinch from that burning gaze.

"You should have held your tongues."

In his corner of the room, Aramis stirred. "I haven't said anything yet."

"Be quiet!" Marais' eyes flashed, but this time he contended himself with shutting the musketeer up with words before he turned his attention on the Cardinal. "Courtis told me what you said to her." 

Richelieu had known that Marais would come to them as soon as the woman asked him about the crates; he simply hadn't expected it would take so long for her to fall prey to curiosity. But although Marais' presence indicated that Richelieu had succeeded in making the woman – Courtis – doubt her leader, the promise of violence he recognised in the Huguenot's eyes prevented him from relishing his triumph. Instead, Richelieu was acutely aware of the rope around his wrists, and the old blanket over his knees that made up the only barrier between them.

"Your plan didn't work." Marais' teeth showed as he spoke.

"And what plan would you be talking about?" Richelieu hoped he sounded more confident than he felt as his captor stepped closer. 

"You tried to make her abandon us," Marais spat, "but this is her fight, too. She would never give up on us so easily."

Richelieu forced himself to speak again. "Then why didn't you tell her what is in those crates?" He remained still as Marais silently glowered at him. Although he had no desire to invite injury, he knew he wouldn't learn anything from this man by cowering. 

"She didn't need to know." Marais' words were as damning as any confession, as he could easily have claimed that he himself didn't know what was in the crates, or that he had never seen them or the cabin before.

"Does she at least deserve to know why you involved her in a kidnapping?"

Finally, Marais looked away and Richelieu resumed breathing.

"I don't need to justify myself to _you_ ," Marais hissed, but the way he shifted his weight made him look unnerved. "I know you spoke to her about La Rochelle, and yet you had the gall to _ask_ her why we _dare_ to violate the King's peace." He twisted his mouth as though he was about to spit out. "We don't want your King's peace."

"His Majesty is protecting your right to congregate and freely practice your faith against the likes of the Catholic League and others who would see you persecuted as heretics." Richelieu made himself speak calmly although his heart raced. "Would you truly disregard the King's mercy and sacrifice everything you have left? It is by the King's justice—"

"Don't talk to me of the King's justice!" 

Richelieu suppressed a yelp as Marais kicked the crate in front of him, sending the burned-out lantern resting on top of it hurtling to the ground. Its glass panes shattered on the floor with a crash. 

"You call what happened at La Rochelle _justice_? What about the other cities? What about Privas? My brother and his family _died_ there!" 

When Richelieu looked up from the broken lantern, he found the Huguenot looming over him and it took him every bit of strength in his body not to draw back. 

"What happened to their murderer under the _King's justice_?" Marais asked. "They had been defeated. You didn't need to kill them!"

"The King didn't condone what happened at Privas," Richelieu said quickly. "I would have stopped Condé, but I was sick."

He told the truth. When they had embarked on the task of subduing the Huguenot uprising in the South in the wake of the siege of La Rochelle, he had reminded the King's generals that the Crown needed subjects, not corpses, but he had fallen ill during the campaign. 

At the time, everything had appeared to go wrong. The wings of victory that had carried them from the rubble of La Rochelle to the gates of Huguenot strongholds like Privas had faltered; their advance had slowed down. Tensions growing in Italy over the Mantuan crisis had drawn away a part of the King's forces, including Treville and his musketeers. There had even been rumours of Louis having the Medici reinstated at court – the greatest madness of all – because almost two years of warring had made the King feel more generous towards his mother. 

With so many worries adding to the stress of managing the campaign, Richelieu had been unable to withstand the illness that had been spreading within his body. Soon, fever had rendered him barely lucid, too weak to even stand. As the reins of command had slipped from his weakened grasp the generals had been quick to pick them up, applying their forces as they saw fit. 

By the time Richelieu had sufficiently recovered to understand what was happening in Privas, it had been too late. 

The news had almost sent him back to his sickbed.

Privas had been one end of the chain of Huguenot strongholds in the South that had answered the Duc de Rohan's call to rise up in his name. Its defenders had fought long and hard against the royal armies, but when the Prince de Condé had finally taken the city, he had made no prisoners. Against Richelieu's orders, he had put every last man to the sword.

"I didn't hear of what had happened until I recovered."

"Is that all you have to say?"

The blackness he saw in Marais' eyes made Richelieu shiver.

"The Prince sacked no other cities," he said, but in this place, at the mercy of his interrogator, the argument sounded weak to his own ears.

"And what happened to that butcher?" Marais bared his teeth. "You say the Prince acted without the King's approval, but how was he punished?"

Richelieu met Marais' challenging gaze, but he had nothing to add. Even Aramis was at a loss for words. Although he hadn't been witness to the slaughter he had to know as well as Richelieu that nothing either of them could say would satisfy Marais. Condé had faced practically no consequences for his actions. He was a Prince of the Blood. A man of his rank couldn't be punished without far-reaching political consequences, and it wasn't as though he had openly rebelled – at least not _that time_. On the contrary, he had delivered a strong enemy position into the King's hands. 

More damningly than that, although he wasn't foolish enough to mention it in the present company, Richelieu had eventually come to accept that the atrocities committed by the Prince de Condé and the King's more zealous Catholic generals had played a part in shortening the conflict. In the wake of the sacking of Privas many Protestant cities had capitulated voluntarily before similar horrors could befall their populace.

"The King's justice!" Marais turned his head away in disgust. When he looked at Richelieu again his eyes flashed. "Many of those who survived his justice have left for England. This was their home too, but you drove them from it! You disarmed our garrisons; you razed our fortresses. Wherever we go, you follow us and do the same to those who would give us a home and yet you say we should be grateful for the ruins you have left us with."

Richelieu opened his mouth in protest, but Marais kept talking. "What did you come to Troyes for if not to take even more?"

"If this is about the keep—"

"Of course it's about the keep! You want to strip us of our defences until we're naked! You say we should be thankful for the King's justice, that we can confess our faith without being burned at the stake, but can you _guarantee_ His Majesty won't take even that from us once he's rendered us helpless?"

"If you go through with this rebellion—"

"Spare your words!" Marais wasn't interested in guarantees and Richelieu regretted having opened his mouth. This man was obviously deaf to reason. 

"It's enough!" Marais hissed. "You have taken enough!"

"So this is your answer?" Aramis asked. "You're arming yourselves." The musketeer nodded at the crates. "For another La Rochelle? Another Privas? Because that is where you're headed if you pick up arms against your King and Queen."

"This isn't going to be anything like Privas!" Marais stopped himself. "His Majesty has made more enemies than us." His lips twisted into a bitter smile. "More powerful enemies than us." He looked at Richelieu. "So have you."

"Could this be the powerful friend you mentioned to Courtis?" Even though his heartbeat quickened, the sarcasm slipped off Richelieu's tongue easily, a familiar tool to hide his fear. "Whatever they promised you in exchange for starting this little rebellion, I can guarantee you they have no interest in seeing the birth of a Protestant Republic _or_ protecting your rights."

"You know nothing of their motivations." Marais, to Richelieu's astonishment, smiled weakly. "You're guessing," he said. Even though an accusation hurled in anger would have been more in keeping with his previous behaviour, he spoke calmly, and the sobriety of his words made Richelieu think Marais sounded disappointed.

"Enlighten me then, who sent you these shipments?" Richelieu asked. "Who is arming you for this next, glorious Huguenot rebellion?

Marais shook his head. "These aren't for us." He indicated the crates and barrels. "Not just. I'm merely keeping them safe. This is so much larger than you think."

"Is it?" Richelieu looked around the chamber. Marais was guarding the tools for an uprising, but he lacked something much more crucial. "The Duc de Rohan led every notable Huguenot uprising in the recent past and yet you still lost. This time, it appears not even your brothers in faith are aware of what you are planning."

"You don't know everything that is going here," Marais snapped, but Richelieu could see the way his fingers twitched and the way he clenched his teeth. Marais was nervous.

Whatever the weapons in these crates were intended for, it was not the Huguenot uprising Richelieu had initially suspected. This was something else, and Marais was not very happy with it. To judge by his clothes, Marais was well-off, perhaps a trader, perhaps even a guild leader. But he was no nobleman and it was unlikely that he had much of a say in whatever plot he had become embroiled in.

"You are being used," Richelieu concluded. "There is not going to be another Huguenot uprising. Perhaps you are hoping that what crumbs you have been promised from the prize-share will soothe the injury done to you and your family in the wars, but you should know that _pawns_ are rarely rewarded." 

"You are wrong! You know nothing!" Marais hissed, but he sounded entirely too defensive to be convincing and Richelieu's blood quickened.

"Didn't you claim Courtis didn't need to know about this rebellion? If all you want is justice for your brothers in faith, why didn't you tell your companions what you are doing here? Don't you think they deserve to know? If Troyes becomes the scene of an armed uprising against King Louis, they, too, will suffer." 

"And didn't you just tell me of His Majesty's _mercy_?" Marais snorted in derision.

"Your actions leave him with no choice but to retaliate. A King who fails to react to a rebellion is not a King for long."

"So you want us to give ourselves up to a King who starved us? Who left us to suffer at the hands of a butcher and who ordered our swords to be broken and our cities to be razed?"

"Would you rather His Majesty treated you in the Spanish manner?"

"Who is to say he won't eventually do that no matter what we do?" 

Richelieu raised his head, not daring to even blink as he looked Marais in the eyes. "I do."

"You?" Marais gaped at him as though he had trouble forming words. " _You_ led the siege against us! _You_ advised the King to take our castles!"

"And I also advised His Majesty to take no more than that. I advised him to leave your churches standing and leave you to practice your faith in peace – against the demands of the Vatican. I serve _French_ interests before anything else. I have dedicated my life to protect this kingdom from Habsburg influence and I will never promote their policies, nor will I ever advise His Majesty to adopt them."

"A fine work you did, allowing that Spanish goat to marry him then. You claim to stand against what her family did to our brothers-in-faith, but what about _her_? Do you truly expect us to put our trust in a King who at this moment is expecting a son and heir from a Spanish bitch? I will _die_ before I call a Spanish half-breed King. I will not wait for that child to grow up to subject us to the same persecution or brothers-in-faith suffered in Spain."

"Don't!" Aramis snapped and Richelieu almost choked on his own spittle. "You don't know Her Majesty!" 

"Be quiet!" Richelieu hissed. 

"That child isn't even born yet!"

"And by God's grace it never will be."

Aramis' mouth dropped open. For a moment, the musketeer was too stunned to speak and Richelieu seized his chance.

"Marais." Richelieu tried to speak calmly, hoping to regain control of the conversation before Aramis could provoke the Huguenot further or before Marais decided that it would be a good idea to try to kick in the musketeer's head. "Your family has suffered greatly, and you may believe that the only justice you can give them is by revenge, but if you continue on this path there will be no going back. You are dooming all you wish to protect, and for what? The promises of traitors?"

Marais' hands twitched. "Don't presume you know me." Although Marais pressed out the words in an angry bark, they gave Richelieu hope that he was more interested in continuing their argument than provoking Aramis.

And there was much yet to be said.

"You claim supporting this uprising is the only way to protect what privileges are left to you, but can you take this decision for all of your companions? For Courtis? You claim you want to save them from the kind of suffering the Spanish Inquisition inflicted upon your brethren in Spain. But how do you plan to explain to your companions that you expect to lead this fight for their freedom with Spanish arms and Spanish support?"

Richelieu stopped when he saw Marais' expression change. His face had turned into a grotesque masque somewhere between shock and rage.

"Is this the same fairy-tale you told Courtis? You're trying to making her believe I'd collude with Spain so she'll betray me?"

Richelieu hesitated, weighing his words carefully before he uttered them. "You _are_ colluding with Spain."

"We came to Troyes after intercepting a shipment of Spanish arms that had been smuggled into the Duché not far from here," Aramis said, his voice tight. He still looked like murder.

"The Spanish hate us!" Marais hissed and Aramis flinched. "They would burn as at the stake before they supported us!"

"And shouldn't that concern you?" Richelieu's gaze turned challenging. "Have you never asked your generous benefactors where these weapons are coming from?"

"The weapons may be Spanish, but that means nothing! If our friend tricked a Spanish smuggler looking to make a quick coin into supporting our cause I consider it justice." 

"How many crates just like these have you taken care of in the last few weeks?" Richelieu's words were laced with pity. It took a herculean effort to banish his scorn for the man's naiveté from his voice. "Do you really believe your benefactors could have procured so much weaponry in such a short time without a single Spaniard in a position of power taking note? These weapons weren't stolen; they were _given_."

"Why would the Spanish help us?" Marais snorted derisively, but there was a desperate edge to his scoffing, and Richelieu could see the seeds of doubt in his eyes. He remembered thinking Marais had looked disappointed when he had realised that Richelieu knew nothing about his patrons or their motivations.

"The Spanish aren't supporting you, they are supporting your patrons, and they don't care whether your uprising succeeds or fails," he said, "their only concern is weakening King Louis and there is _nothing_ that would be more convenient for them to this aim than another civil war on French soil."

"The people who want this conflict have their own reasons that have nothing to do with Spain. They _want_ to succeed!"

"I don't doubt that your patrons have high hopes, but unfortunately that still doesn't mean they have any concern for _you_ or your privileges. I know there are many noblemen in this kingdom who do not care _who_ rules them so long as they receive the lands and titles they were promised for their support." Hadn't Richelieu shortly ago exhaustively complained to Treville about having to deal with that exact breed of nobleman and their petty plots and feuds? He had tried to convince the good Captain of the danger he confronted every day he remained at court. And now he was here, sitting barefoot in a dusty witch house, his back aching, his skin bruised by his bonds, arguing with a madman who refused to see that he was but a pawn in someone else's game. 

He looked up at Marais, saw the hellfire reflected in his eyes, and wondered what had ever driven him to try to convince a Huguenot to be reasonable.

"It is easy for a Catholic noblewoman like the Duchesse de Troyes to pledge her allegiance to a Spanish-backed rebellion," Richelieu continued. "She doesn't care whether she serves a French King or a Spanish one as long as she rules supreme in her own duché, but can you say the same?" 

Marais looked away, but Richelieu could see that he was frowning, as though this thought genuinely disturbed him.

"This is not a Huguenot uprising," Richelieu said. "Tell me you _know_ you have no say in how this conflict will play out."

When Marais looked up again, his eyes shone hot with anger and unshed tears.

"You are right. There will be no Republic – not yet. But our leaders will retain their castles. We will have our walls backs. We will be armed."

"What leaders? Surely not Huguenot noblemen?" Richelieu doubted Rohan or any of his peers knew what was happening in Troyes. The Duc, despite his many, many faults, was too damned honourable to involve himself in a kidnapping. "You shouldn't offer to bear the sins of a pack of traitors who refuse to pay their rightful dues to their King. Rebellion is cheap for them, compared to what you and your like will suffer."

"My like? What concern do you have for people like me?"

"I have nothing but the deepest respect for the hard-working populace of France," Richelieu said, and it was true, to a certain extent, but it was the greatest misfortune that not even Richelieu could run a country without _someone_ paying their taxes. And since, over the past few centuries the French nobility had made a habit of either withholding their money or their loyalty from their King, the common man and the bourgeois had been left to bear the burden of keeping the state affluent. It was this exact habit that Richelieu hoped to break by taking away their castles and making them more reliant on their King.

"Stripping away our means of defence and leaving our homes to the mercy of brigands and common street thugs is _respect_?"

"You have your lords to thank for that. They never had a thought to spare about what _you_ risked when you supported their rebellion – just like your _new_ patrons." 

"You know nothing!" 

"If your patrons manage to start an uprising you are right, there _will_ be change," Richelieu said, emboldened by Marais' weak denial. It appeared that he had hit a sore spot. "There might even be a different King on the throne of France by its end, and this King might even be a Frenchman – but I can only advise you not to trust the promises of traitors. While whoever wins the throne will wear a crown, he will owe it to King Philip. He will be no more than a vassal of Spain, and while he may give your benefactors whatever rewards they were hoping for, he will not cede part of his territory – Spanish territory by then – for you to rebuild your walls."

"That is a lot of guessing on your part," Marais said through his teeth. " _If_ you are right about the extent of Spain's involvement, and _if_ you are right about the turn of the war, _perhaps_ I am running a risk. But perhaps _you_ are making more of these arms than there is. Perhaps _you_ are inventing foreign conspiracies where there are none to save your own skin."

Richelieu could feel himself grow tired. "You are so focused on the hurt that you have suffered that you refuse to see that you are being used. But Spain doesn't want to see you rebuild your garrisons and city walls any more than it would tolerate the rise of a Protestant republic. All they want from you is to fuel their civil war with your anger. But of course," Richelieu said, "why should you trust my words over those of a literal traitor?"

"To me," Marais said coldly, calmly, "His Majesty is the traitor."

"And is your personal sense of betrayal worth selling your friends to the Inquisition?" Aramis had regained his voice, earning himself a scathing look from the Huguenot.

"This isn't just about me!" Marais snapped, and Richelieu closed his eyes. His mouth was dry from arguing, but Aramis wasn't done yet.

"You should _hope_ His Majesty stops you before you do more harm to your own people." 

"It is much too late for that."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that." Aramis returned Marais' dark look with a challenging gaze of his own. "My Captain is at the Duchesse's residence," he said, sounding steadier and soberer than he had all morning. "He _will_ find us."

At that, Marais paused. "That would still be _Captain Treville_ , wouldn't it?" 

Richelieu looked up again. He didn't like anything that came out of the Huguenot's mouth but he particularly didn't like the way he pronounced Treville's name.

"I hope he does," Marais said, so calmly that it made the hairs on Richelieu's neck stand on end. "I hope he comes here."

Richelieu recalled the bitterness with which the woman – Courtis – had spoken of the musketeers and he recalled Marais' rage at the residence, and how he would have killed Aramis then and there if Richelieu hadn't spoken up.

He could only imagine what the King's pet soldiers represented to these people.

Aramis had to have picked up on it too, for he had nothing more to add.

Marais left them as suddenly as he had appeared. As soon as the door fell shut behind him, Richelieu leaned back against the wall – only to wince when the joints of his neck creaked.

"That went well," he heard Aramis quip and felt a headache coming. 

"You were about to provoke him again!"

"He insulted Her Majesty and— and her child!" Aramis stopped himself. "Still, you were right to interrupt," he said more quietly although it caused a pained expression to appear on his face. "You almost got through to him."

"There is no arguing with this man." Richelieu, too, softened his words. "All he can see is the personal wrong he has suffered."

"Something you weren't exactly innocent in."

Richelieu shot him a tired look. "The same can be said of you – and your Captain."

Aramis' mouth twitched as though he had something particularly biting to say about that, but he chose to keep it to himself.

"We can't allow him to go through with this. He has to be stopped before he can attack the King –" he swallowed "– or the Queen."

Richelieu almost sighed. "If it does make you feel better I believe you are right: your Captain will find us." 

If there was anything in the world that he still trusted it was that Treville would do anything in his power to make good on his promise to protect him from his assassins.

He just hoped that he would do it soon, and that Marais wouldn't be there to meet him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tragedy of Marais is, of course, that all his fears will come true, just not at the hands of Richelieu and Louis XIII. While Louis XIII didn't molest the Protestants further after the Edit of Grace, the Queen's child that Marais is so afraid of, once King, reinstated religious persecution of the Huguenots and eventually revoked what few protections had been left to them. Their faith was outlawed. When the Huguenots began to flee their erstwhile home country en masse, Louis XIV even implemented emigration bans to stop them. The vast majority of the Huguenot population still managed to leave the country depite his efforts, leaving France culturally, socially and economically poorer for it.
> 
> Having said that, the show's timeline is nonsensical and fucked up beyond repair and I honestly agonised over what to include and what to leave out. We do know the siege of La Rochelle and the Huguenot uprising happened recently in show canon since Aramis uses a scar he supposedly got a La Rochelle to impress Adele in the first episode and he talks with a Huguenot pastor about the war in episode 5. 
> 
> As you may have noticed, while the War of the Mantuan Succession, which in part happened simultaneously with the Huguenot uprisings in the Languedoc, would still have been going and occupying Richelieu by the time s1 starts, I am mostly sweeping it under the rug – which sucks, because it's such a fascinating bit of history, particularly with regard to Richelieu's exploits. But as this isn't a historical thesis, but fiction based on fiction based on different fiction, concessions have to be made.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. I hope but can't promise this won't happen again as writing the final chapters is taking me longer than expected.

"There has to be something else we can do."

"Please enlighten us, what do you propose?"

Porthos looked away and continued pacing up and down their Captain's temporary office. Behind him, the afternoon sun glowed warmly. The day hadn't many hours left.

Treville was glad that Athos' tetchy question saved him from having to reply to Porthos. He didn't want any of the musketeers to know how much he shared his desperation. 

They had agreed to let Ligny and Saint-Rémy join the search for the day, but while the villagers and woodsmen had spoken to him more freely than to the soldiers, the results were the same as the day before.

Nobody they had spoken to had seen the Huguenots they were looking for since the previous morning. Nobody had any idea where they had gone after they had failed to return from the residence.

The woodsmen had told Porthos and his friends of a pair of abandoned cabins in the area and Ligny had let them there without delay, but they had found nothing.

It was as though Aramis and Richelieu had vanished.

The musketeers had returned to the residence to allow Ligny a break to eat and rest, but Treville suspected that if he asked, he would learn that his men hadn't taken as much care of themselves.

"He's out there." D'Artagnan patted Porthos' shoulder and Treville couldn't help but think that, usually, it was Aramis who reached out to comfort Porthos. 

"We'll go back and find him."

Porthos stopped and breathed in deeply. "Yeah," he said weakly, but he couldn't hide the pain on his face from his Captain. Treville had seen him shot in the arm and still remain calm enough to half-lead, half-carry an injured musketeer off a battlefield. It was distressing to see him so helpless.

Athos expelled a deep breath. "We'll be heading out again."

"You'll find me here," Treville replied and despite the musketeer's usual stoicism Athos' eyes lit up briefly, giving Treville the impression that he had succeeded in making his words sound reassuring instead of like the admittance of failure they were.

Treville wished he could accompany them, but with the search in full swing, he couldn't risk leaving the residence for too long, lest any of his or Cahusac's men should return with news. This was the reasonable choice. He was their Captain. It was his duty to delegate, to accept that he needed to trust his men to act according to his will when he sent them out.

Not for the first time in his many years at the head of the regiment did he feel like he was failing his duty. 

He watched the musketeers go and envied them.

He wanted to follow them. He wanted to mount a horse and ride out and— 

Treville didn't know what he could possibly do that his musketeers weren't already doing, and yet, his heart told him that Aramis was his responsibility, _his man_. He had ordered him to come here with the rest of the regiment. 

And Richelieu—

Treville looked down. There was a map of the surrounding area from the Duchesse's library on the desk in front of him but Treville wasn't really looking at it.

He had wanted to make up with Richelieu. He had been prepared to lay down the terms on which he intended to try again. He had meant to be rational – as much as Richelieu would laugh about that notion – but now all he could think of was how frightened this proud, powerful man had been the night before he had disappeared, and how he had trembled until Treville had embraced him. 

The most powerful man in France; so vulnerable; so easily hurt.

"Captain?"

The musketeer tasked with playing doorman for the day walked in. "The Sieur de Saint-Rémy is here to see you."

Treville bade the musketeer to show the young man inside and immediately straightened. 

"Monsieur."

A brief smile lit up Saint-Rémy's face, but it was gone so quickly that Treville couldn't help but assume the Sieur was nervous. 

"There is something I wanted to ask you, Captain." 

Treville had expected Saint-Rémy to come back to speak with him since the previous evening, but he managed to keep his face neutral. "What is it?"

"You searched the woods again today." Saint-Rémy spoke quickly as though he was afraid Treville would stop listening before he had said what he wanted to say.

"My men did, yes." There was no need to say that they hadn't found anything of interest.

Saint-Rémy exhaled noisily. "There's something I want to verify."

Treville waited for Saint-Rémy to say more, but the young man hesitated. 

"This thing you want to verify, it's in the woods?"

Saint-Rémy's fingers twitched. Perhaps to hide the gesture, or perhaps unconsciously, he started picking at the lining of his jacket. "I— I don't know."

_It was._

Treville squared his shoulders. "If there is something you want to tell me about the Cardinal's disappearance—"

"No!" Saint-Rémy winced as if hit. "I— no. It was just a thought." He took a moment to order his words. "I heard you found a few abandoned cabins, and I was curious. I was thinking, perhaps, if _you_ —" A blush spread across his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm talking nonsense."

Treville frowned. He looked at the musketeer who remained standing near the door. "My musketeers will accompany you if you need to leave the residence."

Saint-Rémy's eyes widened. He turned his head to glance at the musketeer behind him, as though he had forgotten he was there. "No, it's not necessary. I shouldn't have asked. You need your men here; you are occupied with the search." 

But, in a way, Treville was sure, so was Saint-Rémy.

Treville made a point of looking him the eyes and lowered his voice. "Is there something you would prefer to tell me alone?"

"There is nothing I have to say that no one else can hear." Saint-Rémy paused to collect himself, but the blush remained. 

Treville took a long look at the lanky youth before him: Wide-eyed, fingers in motion. "Tell me where," he said, his voice calm, but insistent. "I give you my word that there is going to be no need for you to get involved any further. My musketeers will handle it."

"What? No!" Saint-Rémy froze, his eyes wide. "Whatever you're thinking, I'm afraid you're wrong. I'm afraid you mistook what I was saying. If I _knew_ anything I promise I would tell you," he said and Treville was struck by a feeling of déjà vu.

Saint-Rémy took a deep breath. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, Captain. I should have realised this is a bad time."

It was clear that Saint-Rémy wasn't going to tell Treville whatever he had come here to say and Treville let him go, but not without a frown.

Once Saint-Rémy had left, Treville started pacing, deep in thought.

  


* * *

  


Richelieu studied the broken lantern carefully. Although the edges of the broken glass didn't look particularly sharp, he gathered they were thin enough to cut his bonds. There was a particularly large piece of glass that had caught his eye that he might be able to move closer with his foot. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should put his shoes back on first or whether it would be easier to manipulate the glass if he could move his toes freely, even if he risked cutting himself. 

How he expected to pick up the broken glass with his hands tied once he had moved it when he hadn't been able to pick up a bowl of soup the day before was a question he intended to answer when he had gotten that far.

He could hear Aramis draw in his breath as he stretched out his leg toward the glass barefooted, having decided that his freedom was worth every drop of blood in his useless body.

When the door to the chamber opened to admit Courtis, Richelieu drew his leg back, putting on an expression of pure innocence, pretending that all he meant to do was sit up straight to greet her. 

He hadn't expected to see the woman again so soon after Marais had accused him of manipulating her and when he caught sight of the bowls she was holding he wondered if the reason she had been allowed back into the chamber was simply that every one of her companions refused to feed the prisoners.

Courtis herself didn't look too happy about it. As she stepped around the crate in front of Richelieu she caught sight of the broken lamp on the floor and her mouth tightened.

"Let it not be said that I didn't warn you about Marais." She put down the bowls on top of the crate and carefully walked around the broken glass to the windows. Light filled the room as she opened the shutters. 

It didn't make the chamber any prettier.

"I'm afraid I don't have any more lanterns to spare."

"Once again, your concern is appreciated, Madame," Richelieu said in the friendliest tone he could muster. It wasn't hard. Talking to her was much preferable to having to suffer Marais's dreadful presence. But Richelieu's good mood soon vanished when he watched the woman wrap a handkerchief around her right hand and, one by one, start to pick up the broken glass, collecting it in a pouch partly hidden by the folds of her skirt.

"That is hardly necessary, Madame," Richelieu said, trying not to let his dismay show. "We can't even stand up. We are not going to cut ourselves stepping on the glass."

" _Someone_ is going to get hurt. Remember, I raised two sons."

"The Cardinal is probably just worried the soup will get cold," Aramis chimed in and, somehow, this made Courtis let out a peculiar laugh.

Richelieu thought he understood her amusement when she had finished picking up the glass and started to feed him. He had been wondering whether the dour expressions worn by the men that had watered them and taken them outside were a sign of personal dislike for the Cardinal and the musketeer, or whether Marais had warned them about the Richelieu's silver tongue. But as soon as his lips closed around the spoon Richelieu became convinced that their foul mood was rather a symptom of being stuck in a draughty witch house, away from their families, with poorly arranged provisions.

The broth they had been served the day before could hardly have been called thick, but at least there had been some bite to it, even though the vegetables in it had been badly overcooked. However, it was questionable whether today's serving had ever seen a vegetable. There was some flavour to the broth, and Richelieu could see the drops of grease on its surface, but that was all that distinguished their meal from a bowl of plain water.

Although he was hungry and although his back hurt and his wrists felt raw, a part of him was pleased that his kidnappers shared a fraction his misery.

"Marais has been in a foul mood all day after talking to you two," Courtis began as she raised another spoon to his lips. "I would ask you again not to provoke him for your own safety, but I see now that it is futile to expect you to be reasonable."

"It was unavoidable this time, I'm afraid," Richelieu said. "He asked a lot of questions that he didn't like the answers to." 

Courtis frowned silently, but she didn't need to say anything for Richelieu to know she wasn't surprised. 

"You asked Marais after the crates. What did he say?"

Courtis narrowed her eyes. "You should eat more and talk less, Cardinal."

"Did he tell you the weapons he's smuggling into the Duché are coming from Spain?"

Richelieu fell silent as Courtis put the bowl away and closed her eyes. "Does it matter where they come from?" She sounded tired.

"It seemed to matter to Marais."

"The only thing that matters _to me_ is to what end they were brought here." When Courtis opened her eyes again Richelieu was struck by how dull they looked. Every time he had seen her – at the clearing, when she had first come to bring them food and even when they had argued, even when she had told them about her family's sad history – there had been a fire in those clear, grey eyes that was entirely absent now. It made Richelieu blink in surprise.

"There is going to be fighting again, isn't there?"

Richelieu opened his mouth and then closed it again. There were many things he could say – many biting things about what he thought of the fact that Courtis even had to ask, or about where she thought kidnapping the First Minister of France would lead. But as he looked at her he saw the change in her eyes spread across her face and seep into her very posture and he felt his excitement over the growing discord between his kidnappers begin to fade. 

Courtis had to be wondering what she was going to lose this time. Although she was younger than him by at least a decade, when he looked at her, Richelieu couldn't help but think of the dusty portrait of his parents hanging in his mother's old salon at Richelieu and he wondered what Courtis had looked like before loss had marked her.

"Whoever is procuring these weapons is going through a lot of trouble to arm themselves – I doubt it's just for show," Richelieu said. His voice had softened. 

"What are they planning?"

"I'm afraid I don't know that, yet." Spain had never before just sent weapons to support an uprising and Richelieu thought it likely that there was much more to this rebellion that they didn't know anything about, yet. 

"I don't believe even Marais knows how far this conspiracy goes."

Courtis closed her eyes again and her mouth twisted as if in pain. 

"When I asked him about the crates, Marais told me he is looking forward to the coming conflict. He longs for another fight. _I_ don't."

"And yet you are here."

"Yes," Courtis said, and the lines on her face deepened.

"Believe me, I would prefer if it didn't come to an open conflict, but–" Richelieu couldn't help the gallows' humour – "my hands are tied."

Courtis didn't laugh. "What would you be able to do? You don't know who's behind this. You just admitted as much." 

"Not _yet_ ," Richelieu corrected. "But I'd consider cutting off the conspirators' supply line by eliminating their middleman a start."

" _Eliminating their middleman_? Eliminating Marais, you mean – and hanging everyone else in this cabin for treason."

Richelieu hesitated. Of course he had fantasized about retribution. They had tied him up and dragged him through the forest during a storm and Marais alone had threatened him with violence countless times. But if the years since he was first appointed to the royal council had taught him anything it was that what he personally wanted and what was _needed_ usually were two very different beasts.

He tried not to think of the time when he had foolishly thought he might be able to have a measure of both. He tried not to think of Treville. 

He took a deep breath. "No, it doesn't have to end that way."

"You'd let us all go, just like that?"

Richelieu suppressed a sigh. Of course, he couldn't.

They had committed a crime against the crown – and were, wittingly or not, involved in how many more? But he certainly wasn't going to allow his Spanish counterpart the satisfaction of throwing this country into disarray again. He wasn't going to allow his enemies to turn the people against each other who should stand united as Frenchmen, and he couldn't deny that it frightened him to think of what would happen if they succeeded in starting a rebellion – particularly while Richelieu wasn't around to temper the King's reaction to what was happening in Troyes. He wasn't around to prepare King Louis for how Europe would respond to a new civil war on French soil. And he wasn't there to protect him from the advice of the wife he had grown so protective of in recent weeks, and who remained so damnably attached to her Spanish relatives.

It wouldn't take much more than another of her ill-thought-out letters to her royal brother to spell ruin for everything Richelieu had ever worked towards. Worst of all, he suspected she would write that letter thinking she was _helping_. 

He looked at Courtis and wondered whether she could read the pain on his face. "Stopping these arms from falling into the wrong hands is all that matters now." 

Courtis looked away, lips pressed to a thin line. She didn't like his answer, but it was the best answer Richelieu could give her that wasn't an outright lie, and he felt that she wasn't willing to take a lie at this point.

"Marais told me there was change coming," Courtis said after a moment. "He believes that things can only get better than they are now – but it never was all that bad, not here, not in Troyes." She paused again, her chest rising as she took a deep breath. "The Duchesse let us practice our customs without constraints. She seemed happy that we brought our trade with us when we came here. That she should have a part in something like this–!" Her eyes darted from the crates to the Cardinal's bonds and away again.

"We were only going to talk." She sat back on her heels with a cast-down expression and it took Richelieu a moment to realise she was talking about her companions' visit to the Duchesse's summer residence.

Aramis stirred. "Do your companions often carry a gun when they meet to talk?"

Courtis looked at him appalled, but she had no words to refute him. 

"Marais was the one to pull a gun on you, wasn't he?"

"Yes," Richelieu said and wondered if she had already asked Marais the same question and not gotten a clear answer. 

"But your friend with the walking cane didn't appear very surprised by the fact that he did," Aramis added. "He was very quick to react when I tried to stop Marais from using the gun. He knocked me over the head with his stick."

Courtis looked away, but Richelieu could see her shoulders sag. "The Duchesse sent word to us that she had failed to deliver our petition to the King, and that you were accompanying her to the residence. She offered to arrange a meeting so that we could petition you instead."

"I take it your petition to His Majesty was about the keep?" 

"Among other things. Why we agreed to such nonsense I don't know." She twisted her mouth. "It must have been desperation." Her chest heaved as she took a deep breath. "But they still wanted to try again. They wanted to talk to you." 

"You don't seem to have had much faith in the Duchesse's plan from the beginning. Is that why you waited in the clearing instead of accompanying your companions to this _meeting_ with me?" 

"The King already refused to hear to us out. What chance did we have to convince _you_? And I was right, wasn't I? They told me you refused to even listen!"

Richelieu suppressed a rueful smile. "I'm afraid Her Grace never had an opportunity to relay your wishes to His Majesty. You see me entirely ignorant of your petition. King Louis ordered her to return to Troyes practically the moment he laid eyes to her so that we could begin investigate the Spanish arms that were being smuggled into the Duché." 

"She didn't say," Courtis said, and Richelieu wondered whether having the Huguenots come to him in a state of desperation that drove them to justify even a kidnapping had been more conducive to the Duchesse's interests than delivering their petition would have been. 

"Would she support a rebellion? For the keep?"

"To protect what autonomy she has left in her Duché? She wouldn't be the only noblewoman in France who misses the days when she was able to rule over her own little kingdom without having to obey any laws other than her own."

It was clear that Courtis was only now beginning to understand the extent of the quandary Marais had dragged her into. It made Richelieu wonder what the other Huguenots were thinking. Their dour faces seemed to indicate that whatever Marais had hoped to achieve by escalating from hiding smuggled arms to kidnapping, it appeared to be falling to pieces around him.

"What about your companions?" he asked. "Do they realise that they can't go home? Captain Treville will be searching the village for you as we speak. He won't be happy that you took one of his men."

Courtis' face darkened. "They didn't ask for this. All they meant to do was talk. Why didn't you listen to them?"

"They didn't give us much of a chance," Aramis said.

"It I had listened to your friends' proposals do you believe I would have agreed to their demands?" Richelieu asked. "If I had turned them down at the residence, do you truly believe we wouldn't be in the same predicament? Marais decide on this course before he set foot in my apartments. He was already involved in this conspiracy before the Duchesse proposed coming to the residence to the rest of you, and he would not have brought a gun to _petition me_ if he didn't intend to use it."

"He didn't tell us!"

"I believe you, but whatever you thought you had agreed to when you left for the residence, Marais ignored it and you and your companions are all going to answer for it, regardless of your intentions." 

Courtis didn't reply immediately and Richelieu shot Aramis a subtle look, warning him to keep quiet. To his astonishment, the musketeer appeared to have understood. He looked at his feet, only occasionally glancing up at Courtis, who was lost in her thoughts.

"Marais has been a friend for so many years." She paused and Richelieu could see her chest heave with a sigh. "I've known him since… " She broke off. "For you La Rochelle would have been just another siege. Another show of power." She looked at Aramis. "Does your regiment sing songs about it? Do you show your scars to impress your lady friends?"

"I remember every battle I ever fought in," Aramis said solemnly. "They are not easy memories to forget."

"But that is what La Rochelle is to you: One battle of many." Courtis shook her head. "But for me, it was _home_ , the place where I raised my family." She stopped and clasped her hands in her lap. "I wouldn't have had the strength to leave La Rochelle and start a new life here if not for Marais. He taught me not to give up." 

Richelieu watched her silently as she composed herself, not daring to disturb whatever thoughts occupied her. He found it hard to imagine Marais comforting anyone, but he must have been able to, at one time, to inspire such loyalty.

But then Courtis looked up, and to Richelieu's surprise he saw that the fire had returned to her eyes. "Why would he involve us now, when he kept all of this a secret for so long?" She gestured at the crates.

"He told us he thought you didn't need to know," Aramis said. Richelieu had never heard him sound so caring before. "I believe that, initially, he intended to protect you from all of this."

"Then why did he involve us now? Why the kidnapping? Why did he take you?"

"You didn't ask him what he intends to do with us?"

"I tried to, but I'm not sure even _he_ knows."

Richelieu grew rigid. "What do you mean?"

"All he told me is that you must be worth _something_ to your King."

Richelieu stilled. Just two days ago Treville, poor fool that he was, had tried to convince him of how much the King loved him.

 _Not enough to put his kingdom at risk. Not enough to risk the myriad of dangers that satisfying a madman's demand's entailed._

He didn't dare to repeat his thoughts to his kidnapper. Not like this.

"At the moment, His Majesty is all that stands between you and the Spanish Inquisition, and you could give Spain no better pretext to invade than a Catholic King losing land to heretics. You cannot let this continue." He swallowed. "You know the King can't give Marais what he wants."

Courtis turned her head away, but Richelieu could see her frown deepen. She turned back towards the bowl.

"You should eat up," she said, but Richelieu had lost all appetite. He felt hot and cold at the same time.

_If Marais didn't have a plan to ransom them… if all of this had been a spur of the moment decision…_

_He had no plans to let them go._

"It doesn't make any sense," Aramis said once Courtis had left. "Marais didn't tell his companions about the Spanish arms, or the cabin, but he is the one who took all of them here."

Richelieu closed his eyes, willing the feeling of nausea to go away that pooled in his stomach. "Marais realised he couldn't take us back to the village because your Captain would start searching for us there, so instead he decided to reveal the location of the only safe place he could think of to hide to his partners in crime."

"And the others just followed his lead?"

Richelieu twisted his lips. Of course, a musketeer wouldn't realise that blind trust in one's peers was always a two-edged sword. "They are a close-knit community. You heard Courtis. They relied on each other to build a new life after the uprising. Besides, not all of them appear to have been completely ignorant of what Marais is doing here."

"The man with the cane."

"Precisely," Richelieu said. He dropped his voice to barely above a whisper. "I'm inclined to believe Courtis that our kidnapping was unplanned," 

Aramis paused. "You sound concerned."

"More than is due for a man who has been abducted, you mean?" Richelieu felt tempted to laugh. "You heard the way Marais spoke about his patrons. Did he sound content to you about his role in their plans?" 

Aramis took a moment to consider his words. "He seemed desperate to convince us that he had confidence in them." He frowned. "A man like that needs to convince himself the most."

Richelieu nodded. He felt tired again. 

"This is not a Huguenot rebellion, it is not the fight for vengeance that Marais dreamt of and he is well aware of that by now. This is the work of someone abusing the anti-royal sentiments of the politically naïve."

"So what does he want with us?"

"I don't believe Marais acted on anyone's orders when he took us. It is more likely that he is frantically looking to make himself seem more important in his patrons' eyes through any means he can. Our presence at the residence unfortunately presented him with an opportunity."

"He must have been delighted when you sent away your guards."

Richelieu's expression darkened. Fortunately for him, Aramis wasn't intent on revisiting that old argument.

"Marais is trying to make sure they won't omit him when they share the spoils." Aramis stopped to catch Richelieu's gaze. "The King won't give him what he wants in exchange for you. But what about Marais' patrons, if they win the throne?"

"There is not a single Catholic nobleman in France foolish enough to grant the Huguenots the means for future resistance, and certainly not over a promise to a commoner such as Marais – but," Richelieu held Aramis' gaze and tried not to let his voice tremble, "there are more than a few who would consider it beneficial to see me in chains, or dead, before they openly challenged the King." He thought of the likes of Gaston and Buillon and suppressed a shudder. They certainly would have uses for the Huguenots' prisoners if Marais didn't.

Aramis had the guts to smile darkly. "I can't say I don't understand their reasoning."

"They have even less reason to keep _you_ alive than me," Richelieu snapped.

"All the more reason to escape quickly."

Richelieu choked back a bitter laugh. "How?"


	14. Chapter 14

Saint-Rémy left the residence just as the first light began to spread across the horizon as a vague, ghostly glow. He headed for the woods, carrying nothing but a covered lantern and dressed in a hat and a dark cloak to protect himself from the soft drizzle of rain and the prying eyes of anyone who might be awake and watching at this ungodly hour.

Treville wasn't surprised that Saint-Rémy hadn't bothered taking a horse. The young man wasn't a seasoned enough horseman to make it through the woods on horseback without injury while it was this dark. His decision to travel on foot and the fact that he wasn't carrying any travelling provisions gave Treville hope that Saint-Rémy didn't expect to roam the woods for long in order to find what he was looking for and that, consequently, Treville wouldn't have to worry about having to remain undetected for long.

For once, even the weather was in Treville's favour. The sound of the soft rain dripping off the leaves above helped to cover what noise the soft forest floor wouldn't swallow as he followed Saint-Rémy through the woods. 

Even once they abandoned any discernible path, Saint-Rémy seemed to know where he was going. Although he lost his footing once or twice, the young man's stride was uncharacteristically confident and fast and Treville had to keep shortening the distance between them for fear of losing sight of the Sieur in the sparse light until, eventually, Saint-Rémy just stopped. He just stood there for a while in the middle of the forest, tilting his head as though he was listening for something and Treville, too, stopped, hardly daring to breathe.

"You can show yourself!"

Treville remained where he was, standing frozen in the shadow of a tree. He had been so careful. Was Saint-Rémy talking to someone else perhaps? Someone he expected to meet here?

"I know you're there!" 

Treville didn't move. Neither did anybody else.

Perhaps the young man was guessing.

Treville thought he saw Saint-Rémy square his shoulders just before he turned around.

"Captain Treville?"

Treville released the breath he'd been holding. He wasn't certain whether he had actually been spotted, but Saint-Rémy seemed convinced that _someone_ had been following him and it appeared that he was reluctant to continue his journey until he knew for sure.

Saint-Rémy turned his head to look at him when Treville started walking over to him and – while it may have been a trick of the light of dawn that was slowly beginning to penetrate beneath the autumn foliage – Treville was convinced that at the moment he recognised him, Saint-Rémy looked relieved before he dropped his gaze to the forest floor, making his face disappear under the broad brim of his hat. 

"You followed me."

"Yes."

There was no sense in denying it. There was no other reason for the Captain of the Musketeers to be out here at this hour, alone and on foot. 

Saint-Rémy nodded quietly to himself, but he still wouldn't meet Treville's eyes, probably because he realised that the Captain's reason for following him was the simple fact that Saint-Rémy had no business being out here either. The young man didn't need to know that the only reason that the Captain had been awake and in a state to follow him at this time was that Treville had been barely able to sleep, because he had kept waking up from bad dreams every couple of hours, braced for the worst of news.

"I had to go. There is something that—" Saint-Rémy stopped to search for the right words, but he still seemed dissatisfied when he spoke again. "I tried to tell you, but…"

"You couldn't."

"There is something I had to see for myself first."

"And it has to do with your aunt and uncle?"

"They're my family," Saint-Rémy said. "They raised me."

He didn't need to say more. His voice reverberated with the same anguish that showed in his eyes.

He clearly knew _something_ – something that perhaps could lead to finding Richelieu – and Treville should have been furious that he was holding it back, but the young man's earnestness gave him pause. His anger was tempered by a wave of sympathy for Saint-Rémy's struggle. 

Saint-Rémy suspected his family to be criminals, traitors even, and he was looking for a reason, _any reason_ , not to betray them.

Treville could imagine the desperation with which Saint-Rémy clung to the hope that, perhaps, his suspicions were unfounded and that the people he loved _were_ good people after all.

Treville knew that feeling. He only had to think of Belgard to remind himself.

"I don't want to— I can't—" Saint-Rémy broke off to try and order his words. "I can't– I couldn't say anything. Not until I know for sure."

"You want to understand what is happening before you make a decision," Treville said, his voice laden with emotion, and Saint-Rémy nodded again before staring at his feet.

"I just have to."

"A sensible choice."

This choice alone already made Saint-Rémy a wiser man than Treville had been all those years ago. When Treville had been in Saint-Rémy's position, he hadn't stopped to try and understand the whole picture before he had acted. There hadn't been time to think – or that was what Belgard had made him believe when he had forced him and de Foix to make a decision. Treville had chosen to trust his friend blindly and an innocent woman had died for it.

Treville forced himself to look at the young man in front of him and cleared his throat as he tried to choke down the memory.

"You would never forgive yourself if you didn't." Treville knew _he_ never would. "Will you tell me now what made you suspicious?"

Saint-Rémy released a shaky breath, and although Treville burned to know what he had to say, he forced himself to give the young man the time he needed. 

"There is a cabin in these woods not far from here that my uncle knows very well," Saint-Rémy said. "It— it must have fallen out of use by the woodsmen at least– I don't know? Decades ago? If it ever was one of theirs?" He frowned and Treville nodded to himself. So he hadn't imagined the look of confusion on Saint-Rémy's face when Ligny had spoken of the woodsmen's cabins in the Duchesse's great salon. 

"When we first found the cabin, it looked like it had been used by poachers for a time."

"When you found it?"

"When I was a boy—" Saint-Rémy stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts. "I had just lost my parents." He looked pained. "I wasn't very close to my aunt and uncle back then. It was… overwhelming, being alone."

Saint-Rémy paused again, but Treville didn't dare to speak over the grief that showed on the young man's face. He could only guess what he was feeling. Saint-Rémy would have been a year or two younger back then than Treville had been when his own father had died. And while Treville's father had passed away peacefully in his own home, Saint-Rémy had lost both of his parents to a violent accident.

"Uncle was determined to make me take an interest in riding and hunting, probably to distract me. I wasn't any more interested in it than I am now, but, I guess if he hadn't made me come along I'd never have left my chambers at all. One day we came across that cabin. It was half-ruined. Overgrown. The roof was caved in. But there were still trophies inside: animal skulls, tusks and teeth. One of the trophies – I'd never seen such antlers before, I didn't think deer this large could exist!" Lost in his memories, Saint-Rémy smiled. "I don't know what drove the people who'd lived there to abandon the cabin, but they'd even left a few pelts behind. They were already a bit rotten by then, but – it was exciting. A poacher's hut! The trophy of that fantastic beast!"

It was hard to see in the grey light, but Saint-Rémy blushed.

"We didn't tell Aunt about it, but we'd go back there a lot, it was our adventure. We started fixing that cabin. We even had some carpenters from town over to help us. I think it helped my uncle too. He was very close to my mother…" His voice trailed off, and as Treville patiently waited for him to dry his eyes he thought he remembered Ligny's face lighting up when he had spoken about Saint-Rémy's mother at the fountain in the gardens. Treville hadn't paid much attention to him back then as he had been occupied with thoughts of Richelieu.

It seemed to him as though that conversation had taken place a lifetime ago.

"Uncle should have mentioned it when you asked him about the woodsmen's cabins," Saint-Rémy continued. "It's possible that group of Huguenots knows about it. He should have shown it to you."

"Did you ask him why he didn't?"

"He said it was destroyed in a storm weeks ago, after we moved back to town."

"But you don't believe him."

"It's _our_ cabin. What reason would he have had not to tell me about it until now?"

There was no good reason Treville could think of. From the way he had seen the two interact over the past few days, he gathered that Ligny was genuinely fond of his nephew, but they both struggled to connect with each other. Why wouldn't Ligny mention that something had happened to the one place that meant so much to both of them? Shouldn't he have offered that they salvage it together like they apparently had once before?

Something didn't add up. 

"So you decided to go looking for the cabin. What if you find it intact?" The prospect made Treville's pulse race. What if Saint-Rémy's instinct was right and his uncle hadn't told him the truth about the state of the cabin? What reason could the Sieur de Ligny have to tell his nephew that the cabin had been destroyed, unless he meant to discourage Saint-Rémy from going there? Because he was keeping something there that he didn't want his nephew to find?

Saint-Rémy's lifted his head with a confidence that belied the wet sheen of his eyes. "If I'm right… if the smuggled arms are there, I promise I will return to the residence and lead your men there."

Treville narrowed his eyes. He had to have misheard. "You're telling me you intend there to go there alone, although you expect to find the smuggled arms there?"

"I don't _expect_ to find anything there. I just— I don't know what I should expect."

"Let's assume you are right. Let's assume you find the cabin intact. What are you going to tell the people you might find there?"

"I—" Saint-Rémy hesitated. 

"This could be dangerous, Hugo. Particularly if you are right about the Spanish arms."

"I won't be going there alone. You're coming with me, aren't you?" Saint-Rémy's expression lightened. "What is there to fear with Captain Treville at my side?"

But Treville paused. There were a lot of things he feared: Losing Aramis, losing Richelieu. And what kind of Captain took an untrained boy – a civilian – into a suspected smuggler's lair?

"Captain?"

"The right thing to do is to go back to the residence now and return with the musketeers."

Saint-Rémy's face fell. "No! I can't. Please! I can't involve your men just yet. I— I just need to see for myself first." He looked at Treville out of wide, imploring eyes. "Please, I might know whoever is there. Just give me a chance to talk to them first."

Treville frowned. He understood the boy's desperation, but not even Saint-Rémy knew what they would find in that cabin. Perhaps there would be nothing but rubble – or perhaps they would run into a pack of armed brigands.

Saint-Rémy squared his shoulders. "You can go back, but I'm going on. I _have_ to."

"You shouldn't."

"It's not far from here. We don't even need to go in if we see something suspicious."

Treville's frown deepened. But as he took in their surroundings, he caught sight of the orange light of sunrise between the trees. How long had they been walking to get to this part of the forest? How much time would be wasted returning to the residence only to head out to that cabin with the musketeers and find nothing? And how high was the chance that Treville could find the Spanish arms or even Richelieu and Aramis _now_ , or at least a sign that they were still alive?

Hadn't he longed for an excuse to saddle his horse and ride out to find the abductees himself? Nothing else he had tried in the past days had yielded any results, and he had felt like a liar when he had told Aramis' friends to hold out and be patient. 

Here now was his chance to take action and yet he was trying to tell Saint-Rémy that he couldn't afford to take that chance.

Treville almost jumped when Saint-Rémy took his hand. 

"If we find what you're looking for, I promise we will return to the residence right away. I will lead your men here myself, if you want."

The boy's expressive grey eyes were so dark and stormy that for a moment Treville was reminded of the way Richelieu had looked at him when he had asked him to help him or leave him.

How could he turn back now, when he was potentially so close to finding answers and when each moment he wasted doing nothing was a moment longer that Richelieu spent at the mercy of his kidnappers?

It had been days now and they still didn't know what the kidnappers wanted from the Cardinal.

Closing his eyes, Treville was reminded of the nightmares that had kept him from sleep all night.

If anything should happen to Richelieu just because Treville refused to go on a little further and take a look – or worse, if anything happened to Richelieu because Treville interrupted the musketeers' search for nothing and allowed the kidnappers to slip through their net…

"Please, I need to know," Saint-Rémy said. The determination in his eyes was undiminished. "All I need is a look."

Treville gently drew his hand away to brush over the holstered pistols at his side. Eventually, his hand settled on the hilt of his sword. Its grip was damp from the misty spray of rain, but it offered a familiar comfort as Treville took hold of it.

There could be no harm in _looking_.

"Lead the way."

  


* * *

  


"Do you think they will move us when they move the crates?" 

Richelieu blinked a few times in the weak, grey light of pre-dawn that slowly crawled into the chamber through the windows, until he was lucid enough to understand what Aramis was saying. Somehow, he must have managed to doze off.

"They can't stay here forever," Aramis continued. "These arms are going somewhere."

"You should pray they aren't planning to transport us in one of the crates," Richelieu snapped. He was tired. Tired of sitting in this dark cabin, tired of hearing the musketeer fantasise about yet another escape plan that was bound to fail.

"I have long since meant to say this, but a bit more faith would become you, Your Eminence."

Although he knew that it was probably too dark for Aramis to see it, Richelieu glowered. He was also tired of the quips with which the musketeer tried and failed to mask his frustration. 

"I take it from your prattle that you are still as tied up as when you started your feeble attempts to get rid of your bonds?"

Once night had fallen and the noises from the other room had receded, Aramis had taken to work on his bonds again. He had tried to rub the rope against anything in reach that might create friction, but to no avail. Hours of effort had barely even frayed the rope before the musketeer had to stop because his arms had grown numb.

"I am trying. One of us has to. All you have been doing all night is point out the flaws in any plan I come up with."

Aramis set to work on his bonds again and Richelieu leaned back against the wall, not deigning to reply.

He regretted not having secured a piece of broken glass from the lamp while he still had a chance. Whenever they had been alone during the day, as long as it had still been light Richelieu had tried to find any pieces Courtis might have missed, but unfortunately she had been very thorough.

Not only could Richelieu have used it to cut his bonds, he could also have used it to shut up the musketeer by slitting his throat. 

There was no sense in pointing out _again_ that all of the musketeer's plans would either lead to them being recaptured within moments or worse. As long as they couldn't rid themselves of the ropes tethering them to the crates, all of those plans were doomed to remain fantasies anyway.

The only time they were ever unbound was when the Huguenots took them outside to relieve themselves. But although Richelieu – grudgingly – would admit that Aramis could easily take on one of the Huguenots even with his hands bound, they were always guarded by at least two men. A single shout of the second man would be enough to alert the rest of his companions – and that was if he didn't shoot one of the prisoners first.

Suppressing a sigh, Richelieu wrapped his blanket tighter around himself and sat up. Although he was no longer cold and had even been able to slip back into his shoes after they had dried, he was still far from comfortable.

If only they had something to break the crates, or to pull out the metal rings attached to the crates that they were tethered to. Then, even with their hands still tied up, they could easily escape out of the windows before any of their captors awoke.

But just then, he heard the door to the chamber opening. 

"Don't say a word." Although she was whispering, Richelieu recognised Courtis' voice.

He watched transfixed as she quietly closed the door behind her and walked over to the prisoners. It was the first time he had seen her enter without carrying anything.

"I take it you are not here to serve us breakfast?"

Even once she had stepped closer Richelieu couldn't quite make out her expression, but the way she exhaled sharply sufficed to tell him that she was unamused.

"Keep your voice down. The others are still sleeping."

The meaning implicit in her words made Richelieu's pulse quicken.

"So what are _you_ doing here?"

Wordlessly, Courtis slipped one of her hands beneath the folds of her clothes and produced a knife. Richelieu's heart jumped into his throat.

"I know it is hard for you to see, but Marais is a decent man," Courtis said. "I can't let him continue down this path." Her eyes met Richelieu's. "You say you can stop what is happening here."

"If I am free." Richelieu swallowed, hoping to force his heart back down into his chest. "I do not wish to see another armed uprising any more than you do. Even if you don't believe that I am concerned about the wellbeing of your people, you can believe me when I say that I have worked all my life to protect France from Habsburg rule, and I will not see my work destroyed by one of their schemes."

"What is going to happen to us?" Courtis asked, her voice low.

"That depends on what you are going to do," Richelieu threw a telling look at the knife, "and who of you will still be here when the musketeers find this cabin." 

He wasn't in the habit of forgiving the people who had wronged him, but for the moment, the voice of revenge that had been whispering to him before was quiet. All he wanted was to go home.

"I can safely predict that once I am free my Red Guards will be too busy to pay you a visit." He paused. "However, your friends would do well never to mention their part in a crime like this. The law might still find them."

Courtis closed her eyes. "Most of us just want to go home and forget any of this ever happened."

At first, Richelieu felt tempted to smile. It wasn't often that he related to a Huguenot, let alone his kidnappers. But as the thought passed, her words left him with a chill feeling.

"What are you going to tell your companions when we are gone?"

"Not much. I won't have to. Not to all of them. I didn't come to this decision on my own." 

Richelieu couldn't help but stare. After what had happened, finding out that there was even one reasonable person among the Huguenots seemed like a small miracle.

"As for the others." Courtis pulled out her pouch. Richelieu could just make out the piece of glass in her hand before it disappeared on the dark cabin floor. "Marais shouldn't have broken the lamp. I missed a piece of glass, and you used it to cut your bonds and escaped out of the windows."

Courtis knelt down in front of him and held out her hand. "Let us not waste any more time now. Lift your hands."

Richelieu did as she said. The entire scene felt wholly unearthly to him. Courtis steadied his hands with hers and carefully put her knife to the rope. A moment later his hands were free.

Richelieu raised his eyes to meet Courtis', but he was too stunned for words. She rose without a word and moved on to Aramis. The musketeer at least had the presence of mind to thank her once he was free.

"You must leave through the window." Courtis said when she stood up again. Her voice trembled, as if she herself had trouble believing what she had done. "I didn't appraise _everyone_ of what I was going to do."

"You mean Marais?"

"Yes. For one."

Richelieu could hear her frown. She didn't say any more, but she offered both of the prisoners her hand to help them to their feet. Richelieu had to take a moment to steady himself against the nearest crate. Fortunately, the windows were situated low on the wall. They were not large, but he should just be able to fit through.

"And now we just leave?" Aramis asked. "Did Marais not post a guard?"

"Yes, he did, but she's not coming back to her post for a while."

Richelieu remembered that the other woman of the group had looked quite upset when Marais had suggested killing Aramis back at the residence and concluded that she had to be one of the Huguenots Courtis had confided in.

"What is Marais going to have to say about her neglect of duty?"

"Not much while I am there."

Richelieu didn't have quite as much faith as Courtis that she would be able to keep his temper in check, but he had to remind himself that he knew next to nothing of their history. He also reminded himself that there were people out there who would think it impossible that anyone should be able to calm the tyrannical Cardinal's temperaments, and yet it happened from time to time.

Without further delay, Courtis unlatched the windows. "Best if you go first, Cardinal. Your friend can help you."

Richelieu turned towards her. If the Lord was kind and all went as he hoped, this was the last time either of them would see the other.

Richelieu cleared his throat. "You have my gratitude. I promise, you will not come to regret this decision."

Now that Courtis was standing so close to the window, Richelieu could see her twist her lips into a sad smile. 

"Please, don't take this the wrong way, Cardinal," she said, "but a few days ago, if I had never known that my friends were involved in this, I would have been _glad_ to hear that this happened to you." The lines around her mouth deepened. "Now, I beg you will keep your promises."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally we come to the chapter that I started writing this fic for! :D
> 
> Unfortunately I don't think I'll be able to continue posting weekly (as you may have noticed), but I will do my best to post a chapter at least every two weeks.

Richelieu cried out as he slipped and fell. He caught himself on hands and knees and bit back a curse as the impact sent a sharp pain up his limbs. 

_Not again._

This was not the escape he had imagined. There was nothing comforting or triumphant about stumbling through a dark forest on a cold autumn day and tripping over every bump and hole on the leaf-strewn ground.

"Your Eminence?"

Aramis had stopped a few feet ahead, and Richelieu was convinced he could hear a frustrated note in the soldier's voice.

Once they had lost sight of the cabin and the realization had hit them that they were truly free, Aramis had lead the way at a brisk pace. But he had soon slowed himself as it had become obvious that the older man couldn't keep up.

Not only was the musketeer faster than Richelieu, he was also better at spotting and had so far avoided the tripping hazards in his path. By contrast, Richelieu was beginning to feel like he was walking blind. It was still early morning, steel-grey rainclouds hung in the sky and the large trees in their autumn foliage blocked out most of what little light there was, making the holes in the uneven ground and the roots and fallen branches sticking up from the forest floor hard to see. 

"Are you hurt?"

Seeing that Aramis had already taken a step towards him, Richelieu gritted his teeth and struggled back onto his aching feet before the musketeer could think of offering his help. He wiped his palms on his soutane, already dirty from a previous fall, and although the prickling pain shooting up from his soles made him wince, he dismissed the musketeer's question with a disdainful wave of his hand.

"Keep marching," he said and resumed walking.

Of course he was hurting. Despite two nights of forced rest Richelieu's feet had not healed. With every step he thought he could feel the blisters on his feet split open. His shoes – meant for walking palace halls, not trekking through the woods – appeared to be falling apart as he walked. Through their flimsy soles he could feel every fallen twig and every root he stepped on.

_Of course he was hurting._

But it was no reason to stop.

His feet ached and his lips were numb from the chilly morning air and he hadn't eaten anything since the previous afternoon, but he'd crawl back to Paris before he allowed himself to be recaptured and brought back to that cabin – or worse, turned over to Marais' patrons.

"We are going to reach the edge of the woods soon," Aramis said as they walked.

"When?" Richelieu asked. Perhaps it was the hunger or the cold, or his tired feet, but he couldn't help himself. 

He didn't know how long it had been since they had escaped from the cabin, but the forest had not grown any lighter since. They were surrounded by nothing but trees as far as the eye could see. The bad weather and the early hour made the forest appear unnervingly dark and it seemed to Richelieu as though the spaces between the farthest trees he could make out in this twilight held nothing but blackness.

At least it had stopped raining, for the moment.

"Eventually," Aramis said. 

"Unless you are leading us in circles."

"You are welcome to take the lead, Your Eminence."

Richelieu fell silent and Aramis didn't even attempt to hide that he was rolling his eyes.

Of course, the Cardinal was just as lost as the musketeer.

There were no landmarks and no path to help them gain their bearing. They could hardly even make out the early morning sun in what they could see of the overcast sky between the foliage. Even the pathetic little rivulet they had followed for a while had long disappeared in a crevice among the fallen leaves and the ferns.

"If you need rest—" Aramis began, but Richelieu shot him down with a look.

"I would prefer to return to the residence as soon as possible."

"We are not going to get there faster if you injure yourself."

"I slipped, that is all." Richelieu didn't need to discuss this. He didn't need to rest. He wanted to be back at his Palais with herbal tea and comfortable shoes and a warm blanket. And he wanted Treville – if he would have him back.

"I merely thought I'd be polite. I don't know why I bothered," Aramis muttered.

"And I already told you to keep marching."

Aramis rolled his eyes again as he turned away, and Richelieu thought he heard him mumble a prayer. But just as Richelieu shot him another dirty look, he saw the musketeer reach into his collar and pull out a golden cross on a delicate chain. 

The golden cross was too daintily ornamented and to finely worked to be mistaken for a soldier's jewellery, and it was too visibly valuable to have been given to the musketeer by anyone but a very distinguished highborn lover. 

Aramis caressed the cross gently, as though he had forgotten or did not care that the Cardinal was there. 

"You should stop wearing that, before someone else recognises it." 

Aramis closed his hand around the pendant, briefly shielding it from view. "The Queen bestows her favours on whoever she likes," he said. "There is nothing untoward in her making a gift to someone who protected her in a dire situation."

"There is much untoward about this gift."

Aramis' lips twitched, but he didn't reply. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the forest floor as he kept walking, pulling ahead of the Cardinal.

"I did not say you shouldn't have accepted it," Richelieu said, "I merely advise that you stop displaying it like a trophy."

"It is not a trophy!" Despite the chill in the air, a dark flush appeared on Aramis' face as he turned to look at the Cardinal. "It is a token of her appreciation."

But Richelieu only snorted. "Would that it had remained the only trophy you took from her."

Aramis stopped. "You don't know a thing about what happened between us!"

Richelieu spent a moment taking in the colour of the musketeer's face and his clenched fists and walked past him.

"Keep walking," he said.

But Aramis had no intention to do so. "No!" The musketeer threw his arm out, grabbing Richelieu by the sleeve. 

"There is no one else around!" Aramis gestured at the trees. "You can finally say it!"

Richelieu snatched his sleeve out of the musketeer's grasp with a growl. It didn't take much to guess was Aramis was talking about. "You want to have this discussion _now_?"

"Why not? There is no chance of us being overheard here. No more guards to send away this time. No more reason for your excuses."

Richelieu took a step back. He was cold and he was hungry and his clothes were muddy and his feet hurt and he wanted to _go home_. But his eyes kept being drawn to the Queen's necklace. The dangers of the forest and even recapture seemed insignificant compared to the threat posed by everything that this trinket represented.

He had to tear his eyes away. 

"There is no sense in arguing with you. You are beyond reasoning," he said. "You proved as much when you came to me at the residence." Next to all the other discomfort he suffered, Richelieu hardly felt the bruise anymore that Aramis had left on his jaw, but he knew it was still there. 

"Because I didn't trust that Her Majesty would be safe with you at the palace after you sent _assassins_ after her?"

"Because you still refuse to see that, at this time, _you_ are the greatest threat to her and her child."

"I am not the one who tried to kill her!"

"No. You don't need to _try_. You just _do_."

Aramis' lips twisted into an ugly smile. "Is this another sermon on how my love is dangerous?"

"It _is_ dangerous!"

Aramis' hand closed tightly around the Queen's pendant. "I have not been with her since that night. I haven't been able to speak with her alone apart from the one conversation you overheard. All I can do is watch her from afar. What is so dangerous about that? Would you also forbid me from looking at her – or my child once it is born?"

"Yes! If that is what it takes to protect this monarchy!"

Aramis looked at Richelieu as though he had grown a second head. "All I need is to see that she is safe! A look. A hushed word. Where is the harm in that?"

Richelieu could not believe his ears. The child was not yet born and already he pitied it. If France weren't in such a dire need for an heir, the child could be declared stillborn and quietly passed off to a surrogate mother, far away from Paris and the court. 

But then, to judge by the profound lack of wisdom the pitiable creature's parents had so far displayed, Richelieu was convinced they would have found a way to turn a practice as simple and common as that into a national crisis as well. 

He remembered how, barely a year ago, the Queen Mother had ended up leading the musketeers right to her grandson – and to the right conclusions about his parentage – because of nothing more than simple impatience. 

He shuddered to think of what would happen should that child ever reappear to claim the throne – all because the musketeers, beyond all reason, had decided to let it live. 

It appeared that children made idiots of Queens and musketeers alike. 

Richelieu squared his shoulders as he faced Aramis.

"I can tell you where the harm lies!" He hissed, indicating the way they had come. "You heard Marais! He fears the Queen's child and the future it will bring. He does not want to see this child live to ascend to the throne and he is not the only one."

"I heard him!" Aramis shot back, not caring that he was flushed and spitting. "I have _witnessed_ the danger Her Majesty is in, day after day, and it is _not_ because of me! I have protected her from men like him before! From Vadim, and from _you_!"

Richelieu glowered. Aramis' naïveté was enough to make him forget his hurting feet as he stepped closer to the musketeer. "This is not a danger a sword or musket will protect her from! This is not about a single madman with a gun! Must I remind you that by law the Prince d'Orléans is still the legal heir to the throne? If there should be any hint, any rumour that his place in the line of succession is going to be usurped by a musketeer's bastard, Monsieur will be calling for blood!"

"And so what? All he will have is a rumour," Aramis said. 

"He will have more than a rumour if you keep on as you have!" Richelieu pointed at the necklace. "You have already proven you cannot be trusted not to draw attention to yourself! You are not as subtle as you seem to think. It only took me one look and a few overheard words to guess what happened between you and Her Majesty at the convent. And once you realised I had grown suspicious you determined that the best route of action to take was to _confirm_ my suspicions by confronting me! How long will it take before someone, _anyone_ else catches on?"

"They still won't have proof. All they will have to accuse us is a story."

Richelieu smiled darkly. "But it will be a compelling story. Imagine, Her Majesty staying at a convent alone without a chaperone, frightened of the assassins stalking her. By Her side is the musketeer Aramis, who is notorious among the ladies of Paris, and who has already claimed a token of Her Majesty's affection for his bravery."

"Stop! You are twisting what happened to suit your needs!"

"As will Gaston and a hundred others! And their story will be made even more compelling by your reputation."

"My reputation?" Aramis' eyes narrowed.

"Don't pretend you are ignorant of the way the people of Paris talk about your long list of conquests," Richelieu sneered. "I do not wish to watch what will happen should Her Majesty's name be added to that list."

"Every man in Paris has affairs!" Aramis cried. "Even you!" Bitterness crept into the musketeer's voice. "How is Adèle Bessette, Cardinal? Did you see her when you returned to your country estate?"

Richelieu felt his mouth drop open. That Aramis of all people should dare to mention her name… 

The pistol that had been returned to Aramis should have been a clear warning to him that he had intruded upon a game that was far beyond him. But that Aramis should have the gall to mention her now could only mean that the musketeer had not understood even a portion of who Adèle had been or the affairs he had meddled with.

He clearly didn't know that Richelieu had found out how she had betrayed him, and he didn't know that she was dead.

"But I shouldn't have expected you to understand how I feel," Aramis continued, oblivious of the Cardinal's thoughts. His voice was dripping with venom. "Considering the only women who have ever pretended to enjoy your company did so because they valued your money over love."

"I am well aware of the arrangements I make with my own mistresses," Richelieu shot back. 

Only Adèle had ever forgotten.

While their arrangement had lasted, she had been his eyes and ears at court and more than welcome company in the evenings. He had shared everything with her, from his more trivial needs and vulnerabilities to his decidedly unpatriotic opinion on the King and Queen's abilities to rule the Kingdom without him, as well as his concrete plans of reminding the King of his First Minister's worth – until she had revealed her true nature.

Richelieu would barely have taken notice of Aramis' involvement in the affair concerning the King's ill-advised letters to his Spanish brother-in-law had Milady not been able to identify him as the owner of the pistol he had found in Adèle's bedroom. But now Richelieu knew that while he had let her in on his secrets, Adèle had literally been sleeping with the enemy. 

If only he had been able to get a hold of Aramis back then… If only he could have ordered him to be shot between the eyes right next to his unfaithful lover… How much safer would the world be now?

"And those arrangements are all you are ever going to have!"

The insult snapped Richelieu out of his ruminations. 

A biting reply lay on his tongue, but Richelieu swallowed it. Aramis had no idea what he was talking about. Richelieu hadn't loved Adèle and whether or not she had loved him was of no importance to him. She had been his agent. He hadn't needed her love, only her loyalty. 

And yet… and yet, he had to fight not to lash out at the sting of Aramis' words. 

"Your attempts to deflect from your own failings are as transparent as they are meaningless," he said. "I am not the one who will be accused by Her Majesty's enemies." 

Aramis met the Cardinal's glower unflinching. "A rumour and tales of my reputation are no proof of treason," he said.

If the threat they were facing weren't so dire, Richelieu might have laughed at the musketeer's tone of conviction. This fool truly had no understanding of the games played at noblemen's courts all across Europe. 

"Do you truly believe that someone like Monsieur is going to wait for more tangible proof when all he needs to rally his supporters to his cause is to sow doubt? Think of the Huguenots! Many of Her Majesty's subjects already regard this Spanish Queen with suspicion, and every look that you share with her, each word that you speak to her in a moment that you mistakenly believe yourselves unobserved, and indeed, even a piece of jewellery, will water that seed of doubt until it grows into belief."

Richelieu stabbed the air with his finger as he pointed at the Queen's necklace. "To you, this cross may not be more than a token of Her Majesty's gratefulness. But to Gaston and Bouillon and hundreds more, it is the banner around which they will rally their armies."

"If what you say is true, the Queen would be in danger even if nothing had happened between us at the convent."

Richelieu winced at the frankness with which Aramis admitted his treason, but he did not let up. "But would she be with child now?"

Aramis failed to reply and Richelieu wondered whether he, too, knew that the King and Queen had been neglecting their duty to their people for far too long despite the pressing need for an heir. How else could the musketeer be so sure that the child the Queen carried was his?

"It doesn't take much to realise that she fell pregnant around the time she stayed at the convent," Richelieu said, and with a sinking feeling he realised that he himself had no idea whether the Queen had been wise enough to sleep with her husband after her return from the convent. If she hadn't, King Louis would soon realise all by himself that something didn't add up once the pregnancy was far enough advanced.

He was going to be heart-broken when he learned that the child whose birth he awaited with such great hopes was a bastard.

Richelieu had to clear his throat before he was able to continue. 

"If you want to protect the Queen from wagging tongues, you need to keep your distance. You need to make the royal court forget you ever existed."

"I am a musketeer! It is my duty to guard my King and Queen!"

"A resignation can be drawn up quickly." Richelieu made an effort to speak calmly although his abused feet were beginning to hurt from standing in one spot for too long. "There are other regiments in the King's army – regiments stationed far away from Paris. You could earn an officer's commission alone on the merit of having been a King's Musketeer." 

"No!" Aramis' eyes flashed. "I earned my place in the regiment! Would you have me abandon not only the woman I love, but my home and my brothers-in-arms as well?"

"Think of it as protecting them. Think of your friend who had the misfortune of accompanying you to the convent – your loyal brother-in-arms who claims he has seen nothing and who chooses to say nothing, and as such, is complicit in your treason."

"Athos is blameless!"

"And yet, he will meet the same fate as you. He will be executed. The King will have no choice but to have him quartered alive alongside you."

"No!" 

"They will mount his head on the city walls next to yours. And your Captain—" Richelieu swallowed to prevent his voice from faltering. "Your Captain, blameless and yet responsible for every crime committed by those under his command, will be dismissed. Dishonoured. Although the King loves him, he will be stripped of his rank and privileges—" just thinking about it made Richelieu sick. 

"Finally, the Queen and her child—"

But Aramis was done letting him speak. 

"No!" The musketeer closed the distance between them in a single step, planting himself in front of the Cardinal, face flushed and hands balled to fists at his side. "Not another word! I'm warning you!"

They were standing only inches apart and Richelieu forced himself to stand his ground. The forest was dark and silent and his jaw ached from the memory of the musketeer's punch, but he refused to show fear in front of this child. His aching feet wouldn't carry him anywhere very fast anyway.

"Take my advice to heart," he said. "Keep away from the Queen or everyone you claim to love will have to answer for your treason."

Aramis huffed like a charging boar. "And what of your treason, Cardinal? Who is going to answer for that?"

"Of what treason do you speak?" Richelieu met the musketeer's accusing stare and raised his chin. "Is it the one Her Majesty has already forgiven? Or the one that I am committing every hour on every day that I am not betraying you to the King? You should be grateful that I care more about preventing this country from sinking even deeper into strife and civil unrest than seeking justice for the crime you committed against God and your King." 

Richelieu couldn't stop the gasp that escaped his throat as Aramis grabbed him by the collar. A moment later, the musketeer pushed him away. 

Richelieu caught himself on a tree to stop himself from falling. He watched with his heart pounding in his throat as the musketeer walked away, putting a few feet of distance between them. 

"All I did was comfort her," Aramis cried. "And you would make it a crime!"

"Because it is a crime!" Richelieu croaked. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. "You interfered with divine law! You can deny the truth until the day you die, but the world is not going to bend and change because of your bleeding heart."

"So what would you have me do?" Aramis threw out his hands. "Would you have me leave Paris and never see the woman I love again, or our child?" 

Richelieu dug his fingers into the bark of the tree and pulled himself back up to his full height. "Yes."

"You can't just expect me to just leave!"

"You would already have done so by your own choice if you were wise. If you cannot be trusted not approach Her Majesty again, not to share a look, or a hushed word as you say, then you must avoid her. If you cannot be trusted to avoid her, you must leave."

"This is wrong." Aramis shook his head. His voice was hoarse. 

"She is the Queen of France and you have no place at her side. Her life is not her own. She has a duty to her people, and you have no right to intrude further!"

"She needed me. I protected her!"

"You did, well done. Now forget about her!"

Aramis reeled back as if he had been punched. "How? How can you just expect me to _forget_ her?"

"There is no other way. If you want to protect her, you need to leave Paris and forget any of it ever happened."

Richelieu hadn't thought Aramis' flush could possibly turn any darker.

"If you knew anything about love and loyalty you would not ask that of me. But how could you?" Aramis' chest was heaving as he continued. "How dare you tell me to forget about her?" His voice turned low. " _You_ don't know how to love anyone you haven't paid!"

Richelieu clutched the tree he was leaning on tightly. Aramis didn't know a thing. 

"You spent a single night with her." Richelieu hissed. It took effort to speak as the bitter taste of bile filled his mouth. 

_Aramis knew nothing._

"You may think you are in love with her, but do not presume you have any right to put this kingdom at risk over whatever fleeting feelings may have passed between you." 

Aramis looked ready to grab Richelieu again. "How can you judge what passed between us? You don't know what happened that night!" 

Aramis shut his eyes briefly as he clutched the Queen's pendant, perhaps to calm himself. "We had only a single night, but believe me, it does not diminish what happened. There is not a single day that I do not think of her or that I do not worry about her safety. Even if I can never be with her again, I will not abandon her while men such as you or Marais are out there, seeking to harm her."

"You _will_ never be with her again!" Richelieu could hardly believe that he even had to say it. "She is the Queen of France! How often have you spoken to her? What do you know of the life she leads? What does she think of yours? Of your _women_? Of the blood you have shed? How do you think she will feel about you if you continue to stalk her like a dog?"

"Don't you dare presume what she is feeling! You don't know what she's thinking!"

"But you do?" Richelieu scoffed. "You don't understand a thing about royalty. You are clearly infatuated with her – with the _idea of her_ – but don't claim what you shared at the convent to be _love_."

"You are such a great judge of love then, Your Eminence?" Aramis's face wrinkled in disgust. "Yes, we only had one night, and yes, I may never be with her again. I will never be able to proclaim my love openly; I will never be able to announce it to the world. My love will never be blessed by anyone, but if this is the only way I can love her then I am glad to suffer."

Richelieu closed his eyes. He didn't need to listen to this fool's delusions about love. 

He tried not to think about Treville. He tried not to think about the decades of getting to know each other, of the testing and pushing and negotiating until they had found an arrangement that suited them so well. It was all gone now, because Treville believed he needed to protect the musketeers from him. Because of childish fools like Aramis, so unworthy of his Captain's loyalty, who thought he was the only person who had ever loved someone he shouldn't.

"You still pretend what you feel for the Queen is anything but your penchant for pursuing women above your own station?" The venom in Richelieu's words was heartfelt. To think that Aramis still insisted on putting his disgusting affair over anyone who had ever truly loved... To think that Aramis believed he was the only one to have ever loved tragically… To think that Aramis could claim that pining for a single night with a woman he hardly knew was _suffering_ and not drop dead on the spot... 

"Of course, it makes sense that you would eventually set your sights on the one truly unattainable woman for the perfect courtly love story." Richelieu sneered. "But your life is not a medieval song. You are _not_ the romantic hero who is exalted by how he suffers as he pines for what he can never keep. You—" Richelieu punctuated his words with a stab of his finger, "are a _threat_!"

Aramis' fingers twitched as he took a step towards the Cardinal. "You think that I'm dangerous. You think that my love is dangerous. You are wrong! You can't imagine what it feels like to love someone and not to be able to be with them! Not to be able to hold them when you need to, or to kiss them, or simply to show that you love them."

"You are not the only one who has ever loved!" The forest disappeared behind a red haze as Richelieu walked up to Aramis. "You are not the only one to have suffered, and I will _not_ let you put an entire kingdom at risk over a moment's passion!"

"You cannot make me abandon her!" Aramis flashed his teeth, but Richelieu refused to back down. He would not suffer this fool's delusions a moment longer. 

"If you will not see reason," the Cardinal growled, "you will be _made_ to."

Aramis froze. His voice dropped low. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't take you back to that cabin myself!" he growled, and despite the heat of their argument, the musketeer's threat sent a chill down Richelieu's spine. 

"You would turn me over to my enemies? Would you betray your King a second time?" 

"Do you expect me to continue to protect you after you threaten to have me killed?"

"I was thinking about arranging a transfer to a different regiment," Richelieu snapped. "I do what I must in the service of France, but contrary to what you believe, I do not make a habit of killing without a reason." 

"You don't?" Aramis turned away from Richelieu with a look of disgust "I heard your reasons for attempting to take the Queen's life. I've heard the excuses you made to her, but you cannot convince me that her death could ever be necessary to serve France."

"It is in your hands to prevent it from _becoming_ necessary."

Aramis' eyes narrowed. "I will not fall for your blackmail. I will protect her as I have before: As a musketeer." 

Richelieu almost laughed. "If the kind of protection I suffered from you is the same kind of protection you are planning to provide for the Queen, she is in even greater danger than I thought."

Aramis whirled around to face the Cardinal. The chill in the air was nothing compared to the ice in his voice. "Feel free to find your own way back to the residence then, Your Eminence – if you think you can deal with the Huguenots on your own." And with that, he started walking.

Although his feet protested, Richelieu chased after him.

"You would leave me here?"

Aramis did not reply. He only threw a single glance back over his shoulder and hurried his steps. 

"And what do you imagine will happen should the Huguenots recapture me?" Richelieu called. Gritting his teeth, he lengthened his strides, although it made his shoes cut into his sore heels. "Imprisoning me or killing me won't save you or the woman you claim to love. Your secrets won't die with me. They _live_ with you!"

"I have listened to you long enough!"

"You _asked_ me to tell you this! You cannot run from the truth!"

Aramis muttered something unintelligible, but he would not slow down.

Eventually, Richelieu broke into a trot. They both knew he would not be able to keep up for long, but he tried, until the earth gave way under his foot and he fell down with a cry. 

He choked back a sigh as he pulled himself onto his elbows and knees in the dirt. Just another stain, another bruise. His left foot hurt even worse this time.

Supporting himself on a nearby tree he pulled himself up, suppressing a grunt, but as soon as he put his weight on his left foot he went down again. The pain made him cry out. 

He tried again to get up with the same results. 

This time he remained on the ground, trembling and trying to process what had happened. Craning his neck, he could just make out the foxhole that had had stepped in. He could feel his ankle throbbing. 

Tears ran down his cheeks as he pressed his eyes closed.

_This couldn't be._

He couldn't get up.

"Your Eminence?"

Richelieu wondered how Aramis had enough sympathy left for him to sound so concerned.

Richelieu swallowed the bile in his mouth as he tried to steady his voice. 

"I must have twisted my ankle," he said. "I can't walk."

Aramis cursed.

  


* * *

  


Ligny had lied to his nephew.

Treville and Saint-Rémy had come to a halt as soon as they had a clear view of the cabin, but even at a distance, Treville could tell that while the cabin had clearly seen better days, it could hardly be called ruined. Its roof and walls were covered in vines and moss and some of the shutters looked broken, but parts of the walls even appeared to have been repaired recently. 

"We should get closer." Saint-Rémy said. His face was ashen but he sounded determined. "Maybe we can look inside." 

The young man started moving, but Treville stopped him with a hand on his upper arm. 

"The fact that your Uncle lied to you about the state of the cabin doesn't mean he is involved in treason."

"Yes, I know."

Treville heard Saint-Rémy take a deep breath.

"But I guess it means that whatever he's hiding in there can't be good."

Treville moved his hand to Saint-Rémy's shoulder. 

"Whatever is in there, you did the honourable thing by taking me here."

"Yes." Saint-Rémy kept his eyes fixed on the cabin. "I'm just afraid my Uncle won't see it that way."

Treville squeezed Saint-Rémy's shoulder silently. There was no answer he could offer that would have comforted the young man, as Treville shared his suspicions. 

"How many rooms are there?" Treville asked, returning his attention to the cabin.

"The cabin has two chambers on the ground floor that we should be able to look inside before we go in. There's also a narrow sleeping space under the roof, but it can only be accessed through a hatch in the main chamber."

Treville frowned. "If anyone in the cabin saw us approach, they could have gone up that hatch to hide."

"It's possible, although there really isn't much room. I can hardly stand up in that space."

"Could they see us from up there?" Treville asked, although, of course, what he truly meant was _could they take aim at us_?

Saint-Rémy took a moment to think. "I don't think so. The space isn't exactly well-lit. There's some small windows only on the east and west sides."

"I will keep it in mind." Treville adjusted his pistols in their holsters. "Stay here for now," he warned, and saw a flash of surprise cross Saint-Rémy's face.

"But you said I could have a look."

"You will, after I made sure it's safe for you to go in there. You made the right choice telling me about this place, but this could be dangerous, so from here on you will follow my lead."

Saint-Rémy didn't look happy, but he relented.

"I understand."

Treville gave him a fond look. Although Saint-Rémy wasn't a King's musketeer, he was as brave as any of them. The young man was faced with the increasingly likely possibility that the Uncle who had raised him was a traitor to the Crown and yet he was determined to things through. 

Treville checked his weapons again. Both of his pistols were loaded and he loosened his sword in his sheath. His heart was beginning to beat faster and a familiar feeling of excitement flowed through him as he mentally prepared himself for a fight.

He had no idea of what awaited him in the cabin. 

Armed smugglers?

Or perhaps Aramis and Richelieu?

In a few moments he might know whether they were still alive.

With one last encouraging look at his companion, Treville started moving.

Keeping his hands near his weapons, he tried to stay out of sight of the windows as much as possible as he sneaked up to one of them. He'd be damned if the cabin didn't hold any answers – for good or ill. 

Peering inside, he made out what by its size appeared to be the main living space of the cabin. He could see a table and a pair of simple wooden benches arranged in front of a small fireplace, but there was no sign of any smugglers or the kidnappers and their hostages, and the knot in Treville's stomach tightened. 

He should have been relieved that there was no band of armed criminals waiting for him, but if the cabin turned out to be empty, then where else could Treville hope to find Aramis and Richelieu?

Taking a deep breath, Treville moved on to the first window of the adjoining chamber. He exhaled sharply when he saw the crates. Their shape was no more or less indicative of their contents than the shape of the crates the musketeers had investigated on their first trip to Troyes had been. But although Treville couldn't tell merely from looking whether they contained the missing Spanish arms, the fact alone that one chamber of the allegedly ruined cabin was stacked with a large number of sizeable crates was damning, as he doubted that Ligny would have lied about the cabin to his nephew if he was using it for as innocent a purpose as hiding the family's best wines from the royal hunting party. 

He waved for Saint-Rémy to approach and watched as the young man's eyes widened at the sight of the crates.

"Those weren't in there the last time I was here."

"The cabin appears to be empty apart from the crates," Treville said. "Any idea what your Uncle could be storing in them?"

"No. Unless these are the arms you've been looking for." Saint-Rémy's expression turned bitter and Treville touched his shoulder again.

"We won't know for certain until we've had a look, but it seems likely," Treville said. "I'm sorry."

But Saint-Rémy shook his head. "Don't be, just—" He twisted his lips. "I _need_ to know what my Uncle's been doing here. We need to go inside."

Saint-Rémy caught Treville's gaze and the fire Treville saw in his eyes gave the old musketeer pause. The young man was adamant to confront the sins of his family, in spite what that could mean for himself and his family.

" _I_ will go inside," Treville reminded him. Despite Saint-Rémy's bravery, any investigation of the cabin was best handled by a musketeer. 

"But, you said the cabin is empty."

"It _looks_ empty," Treville corrected. "But even if the cabin is safe, I need you to keep an eye on the woods in case whoever put the crates in there comes back. I can't go in without someone watching my back."

Saint-Rémy straightened. "Of course, Captain."

The young man's earnestness made Treville smile, despite the tension. 

Without further delay, Saint-Rémy led him to the cabin's only door. It was locked, but Saint-Rémy had brought a key.

"So I just wait out here?" Saint-Rémy asked as he handed the key over. 

"No. Stay close, keep an eye on the cabin, but hide. If anyone approaches the cabin, don't engage them. Try to warn me instead."

"You can count on me," Saint-Rémy said solemnly. 

This time, Treville did not smile at his enthusiasm.

"If you can't warn me, if it looks like it would be too dangerous, return to the residence and tell my musketeers all you have seen."

Saint-Rémy hesitated. His earlier eagerness had disappeared. "Captain…"

Treville put his hand back on Saint-Rémy's shoulder. 

"If there is trouble, you will stand a better chance of facing it with the help of my musketeers."

"Yes, Captain."

Treville studied the young man before him for a long moment. Saint-Rémy had turned paler and paler with every word. 

Treville drew one of his pistols and offered it to him.

"Take it."

Saint-Rémy's eyes widened as he took the gun.

"Are you sure? I'm not a good shot as you have seen."

Treville put his hands over Saint-Rémy's, and a faint blush appeared on the young man's cheeks. 

"Treat it as a last resort. It is vital that one of us returns to the residence, no matter what happens here."

Saint-Rémy nodded bravely and accepted the gun.

Treville waited until his companion had retreated before he approached the door. 

He didn't like the idea of entering the cabin without support as long as the people in charge of the crates were unaccounted for. But he had come so far and it would only take a few more minutes to confirm whether what was in the crates was worth bringing the musketeers here and interrupting their search for Aramis and Richelieu. 

The door opened easily and silently under Treville's hand. The main living space of the cabin looked almost cosy with its modest fireplace and the sturdy table and benches in front of it and Treville could make out the distinct, homely smells of cooked vegetables and the smoke of a hearth. But the first thing that drew Treville's eye were a few wooden crates pushed against the far wall. It appeared that the second chamber wasn't large enough to hold all of the crates.

His second look fell on the wooden dishes stacked on a cupboard in a corner of the room and the blankets that lay on the floor. They all looked as though they had been used recently, and a closer inspection of the fireplace revealed that the ashes were still warm, but there was no sign of the people who had lit it.

Crouching next to the blankets, Treville turned them over, but they offered no clues as to the identity of their owners.

A ladder, resting in one corner of the chamber caught his eye next. Looking up, he could see the hatch Saint-Rémy had mentioned and a chill crawled up Treville's spine as he imagined what might be lurking behind it. 

Whoever was up there had the advantage on anyone trying to climb up. 

Forcing himself to ignore the hatch for now, Treville quietly moved on to door to the adjoining chamber, to make sure there was no one hiding inside, lying in wait to ambush him. 

With his pistol in his hand, Treville pushed the door open. 

Nothing moved, but the sheer amount of crates and barrels in the chamber gave him pause. Not all of them had been visible through the window and he itched to open one of them, but he had to secure the rest of the cabin first. 

Returning to the main chamber he looked up at the hatch again. It seemed unlikely that anyone should be up there with the ladder so neatly tucked away in a corner of the room, but Treville had to make sure. He wouldn't help anyone by focusing on the crates only to be taken by surprise by any kidnappers or smugglers hiding up there. 

Besides, a narrow upstairs sleeping area didn't seem like the most unlikely place to lock up prisoners.

As quietly as possible he positioned the ladder and ascended to release the hatch. He could see nothing but blackness beyond. Treville waited, but no sound could be heard, nothing moved. 

Slowly, Treville climbed up further, pistol at the ready. 

He stopped before poking his head through the opening to listen and allow his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. Again, there was no sound and no hint of movement. 

Treville took a shallow breath. In a moment, he might have to fight. In a moment, he might die.

But at least he was risking his life to strike down a conspiracy.

At least he was doing it for Richelieu. 

Carefully, he raised himself through the hatch, just enough so that he would be ready to shoot anything that might be waiting for him, but the small windows let in enough light for him to see that there was nothing to see. 

There was nothing in the sleeping space apart from a cot on either side of the hatch and a heavy-looking chest that sat against the far wall.

Saint-Rémy had been right about the space being narrow. 

Treville hauled himself up entirely and crouched next to one of the cots. Only the dust moved, and a startled mouse that skittered from underneath one wooden cot to a hole in the wall. 

Treville took a look inside the chest for good measure, but found only an old blanket smelling of dust.

There was no sign of the Huguenots or their captives.

As Treville climbed back down the ladder, he reminded himself that there were still the crates for him to investigate and that coming here might not have been a complete waste of time, but he failed to calm his racing thoughts.

He had been so sure that he'd find at least a clue at the cabin as to Aramis and Richelieu's whereabouts.

Since their disappearance Treville had not stopped telling Cahusac and Aramis' friends that it was no use agonising over what ifs, but it was hard to believe in his own words faced with yet another failure.

 _What if_ Aramis and Richelieu had already been taken out of the Duché?

 _What if_ the kidnapping and the missing Spanish arms weren't related at all and chasing the smugglers meant letting the kidnappers get away?

 _What if_ Treville's efforts were all too few, too late?

 _What if_ Aramis and Richelieu were already dead?

Holstering his gun, Treville hurried back to the adjoining chamber and took a deep breath. The sooner he was done here, the sooner he'd be able to return to the residence. And once he was there – then what?

Their search of the forest and the questioning of the woodsmen hadn't yielded any more results than searching the village had.

He was out of leads. 

Gritting his teeth, Treville shoved open the door to the chamber that held the majority of the crates barrels. He couldn't give in to his fears now. It was impossible to stop thinking about Richelieu and Aramis, but King Louis had sent him to Troyes with the task of solving the mystery of the Spanish arms and he couldn't fail His Majesty as well. 

Deciding that each crate was as good as any other, Treville unsheathed his poniard and worked on prying the nearest one open. It was arduous work to remove the nails without a more suitable tool, but at least it forced him to concentrate on the here and now and eventually he managed to move the top off the crate. He was greeted with a sight very similar to what his musketeers had described to him weeks ago when they had returned from Troyes for the first time.

Inside the crate, on top of many more of its kind, lay an arquebus and Treville recognised its lock mechanism as being of Spanish design.

The Spanish arms were here.

Treville slid the top of the crate back in its place, and, stepping back, he looked around the chamber again. The sheer number of crates in the small chamber staggered him. He remembered the list the musketeers had made of the powder and arms they had found on the smugglers' cart and their estimates for the size of potential previous shipments.

This room alone held enough weaponry to arm an impressive militia. 

Treville turned on his heel and rushed out of the chamber. 

He had to return to the residence as quickly as possible and get the musketeers. These arms could not be allowed to disappear again. 

Without wasting another thought, Treville hurried towards the exit. He threw open the door and froze. 

Outside was the Sieur de Ligny, holding a pistol aimed at Treville's chest. He was flanked by two men Treville hadn't seen before who were likewise armed and taking aim at him.

A few feet away, a third stranger was holding Saint-Rémy by the arm. The young man looked miserable. 

"Please be so kind as to hand over your weapons without much ado, Captain," Ligny said. "That way I won't have to shoot you."


	16. Chapter 16

Seeing no way to defend himself against four armed men, Treville obeyed. Wordlessly, he placed his sword, dagger and the remaining pistol on the ground. He did not move as one of Ligny's companions searched him to confirm that he was unarmed, and he didn't protest as he was ordered to step back into the cabin. 

Ligny and two of the strangers followed closely behind. The fourth man stayed outside with Saint-Rémy. 

"That is far enough, Captain."

Stopping in the centre of the cabin's main chamber, Treville turned around to face Ligny. 

The Sieur had spoken calmly, but the tension around his mouth and the tight grip he kept on his gun betrayed that his nerves were strung as tautly as a cocked crossbow. 

Ligny ordered Treville to sit down, gesturing for him to take a seat at the table in front of the fireplace, and since Treville didn't consider his chances against three armed men much better than against four, he obeyed. 

He moved to the table with unhurried steps, taking his time to steel his nerves before he sat down on the wooden bench behind it, facing the Sieur and his companions.

"What are we going to do with him?"

Treville turned his head to give the stranger who had spoken a steely look, but when he saw the man's face he struggled not to flinch. Even in a situation like this, the violence with which this man regarded him surprised Treville.

Judging by his clothes, the stranger was likely a Huguenot, although he was dressed much more finely than the average Huguenot Treville had encountered at the village. Could he be one of the town's representatives the Duchesse had invited to that ill-fated audience with the Cardinal?

The thought sent a shiver down Treville's spine. Did this man know what happened to Richelieu and Aramis?

"The Captain and I will have a talk." Ligny said, causing the stranger to turn to him with wild eyes.

"This is Captain Treville! He—"

"I _know_ ," Ligny hissed. His voice sounded tight.

"You don't understand, Monsieur—" The stranger touched Ligny's arm, but the Sieur stepped back and slapped his hand away.

"If you cannot behave, go outside and keep my nephew company!"

"But, Monsieur, you cannot mean to—"

"You called me here! If you want my help, you will do as I say!"

The stranger gritted his teeth, but he stopped his protests and resumed silently glaring at Treville.

Treville chose to ignore the man's glower, keeping his eyes on Ligny instead. 

The Sieur had lowered his gun, but it was still in his hand and the tension exuding from him was palpable.

"Why did you come here? Why did you have to drag Hugo into this?"

Treville met Ligny's accusing stare calmly. He, too, regretted that Saint-Rémy had become embroiled in his uncle's treason, but the Sieur had only himself to blame for it.

"Your nephew invited me to accompany him here because he suspected that you had lied to him about the state of the cabin. He told me you had claimed it was ruined."

Treville didn't need to say more. The fact that they all found themselves inside an intact and perfectly habitable cabin spoke for him.

Ligny's eyes flashed. "He didn't need to know! I wanted him to stay out of this!"

Treville raised his chin. "I tried to discourage him from coming here," he said. "I warned him that he would be putting himself in danger, but he was determined to find out what you were keeping from him."

"You _warned_ him?" Ligny gripped his pistol so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "I would never harm my own nephew! What kind of man do you take me for?"

Treville looked Ligny straight in the eye as he spoke. "You are storing weapons in this cabin – provided by Spain – to support an uprising against the Crown. I take you for a traitor."

Ligny's eyes narrowed, but the Huguenot who had spoken up before stepped forward before the Sieur could speak. 

"It is no treason to defend oneself against a tyrant."

"Marais!" Ligny snapped and Treville's stomach dropped as he saw his initial suspicions confirmed. The name 'Marais' had been on the list Troyes had drawn up for him. This man had to have been part of the group the Duchesse had invited to the audience with the Cardinal. This man had to know what had become of Richelieu and Aramis.

Treville's heart raced as he looked into the faces of each of his captors.

"Did you take the Cardinal and my musketeer?"

Silence fell over the cabin. 

The Huguenots looked to Ligny, who kept his eyes fixed on his prisoner. Treville could see the muscles in Ligny's jaw tense, but the nobleman remained silent.

"Don't tell him anything!" The Huguenot named Marais stepped forward. "Just shoot him!"

"Be quiet!" Ligny hissed. 

Treville didn't dare to breathe.

But this time Marais did not back down. He grabbed Ligny's arm again. "Monsieur, we need to start looking for—"

"I told you to be quiet!"

"This man is a threat to our cause! You _cannot_ tell him anything! You cannot let him live!"

"You do not tell me what to do!" Ligny flashed his teeth as he closed the distance between him and Marais with a single step. Their faces were only inches apart.

Marais opened his mouth to protest, but Ligny cut him off. His voice was as taut as his face. "No! This is your fault! If I am to contain the damage you have caused, you will let me do as I see fit!"

Whatever damage Marais had caused; the reminder was enough to cow him. 

"As you wish, Monsieur."

After shooting Treville another withering look, Marais stepped back, and Treville could see all three of them relax the grip on their guns. 

He started breathing again.

A twitch of the finger could have ended it all.

After shooting Marais a final warning look, Ligny turned back to Treville. "You are wondering whether I took the Cardinal and your man?" 

"Yes." Treville was surprised at how raspy his voice sounded. "Did you?"

Ligny's eyes narrowed as he watched his prisoner for a long moment, taking his time to answer. His silence became more damning the longer it lasted.

He _knew_ where Richelieu and Aramis were. Or, at the very least, he knew what had happened to them. 

Treville cleared his throat. "What have you done with them?"

Ligny's gaze briefly dropped towards the floor and Treville had to force himself to sit still. 

When Ligny looked up again, he turned to the Huguenots. 

"Get outside and wait for my signal."

"Monsieur—!"

"Go!"

"At least tie him up first."

"No! I will call for you if I need you to restrain the Captain for me." He shot a warning look at Treville who met his glare stoically.

No threat Ligny made could unsettle Treville more than the realisation that there was something concerning Richelieu and Aramis' fate that Ligny evidently did not want to discuss in front of the Huguenots. 

"Go outside," Ligny repeated. "Make sure nobody approaches."

The Huguenots exchanged a look in silent communication, then, they left. But although they followed the order they had been given, Treville suspected they were asking themselves the same question as he did: What did the Sieur not want them to hear? 

Once the Huguenots had left, Ligny straightened.

"I am sorry, Captain. I am afraid my associates do not love the King or his musketeers."

Treville swallowed the lump of tension in his throat to strengthen his voice. "What about you?"

Ligny took a moment to study Treville's face. "I meant what I said when you first arrived at my sister's residence," he said, eventually. "I was honoured to receive you as my family's guest. My brother never had a bad word to say about you and your reputation as a warrior and a gentleman speaks for itself. There is no reason for us to be enemies."

"Isn't there?" Treville shot a pointed look at the gun in the nobleman's hands and Ligny exhaled audibly. 

"Again, Captain, let me apologise for the way you have been treated, but by coming here you have intruded upon very delicate matters."

"You abducted the Cardinal and my musketeer!" 

Ligny's jaw tightened as he paused. "There is one thing you need to understand, Captain," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't _plan_ to abduct the Cardinal or your man, and I never had any intent to harm _you_." 

Treville stared at Ligny. He struggled to stay seated instead of springing to his feet and throttling the nobleman. Did Ligny really think that he was interested in his apologies? 

There was only one thing Treville wanted to hear from him.

"What have you done with them? Is the Cardinal still alive? And my musketeer?"

Ligny calmly met Treville's gaze. "Yes."

Treville briefly closed his eyes in relief. He couldn't stop himself.

They were _alive_.

"You surprise me, Captain."

Treville looked up to see Ligny searching his face.

"Your concern for your man commends you," the nobleman said, "but you told me yourself that you did not see eye-to-eye with Cardinal Richelieu and the stories of your disagreements at court have travelled far."

Treville put on a stoic expression. "He is still the First Minister."

"And His Majesty charged you with his safety, I _see_." Ligny frowned. "I understand your concern. The Huguenots here have no love left for the King, but they loathe his First Minister even more. After all, not only is His Eminence directly responsible for the violent deaths of many of their brothers-in-faith, he has also been relentless in enforcing the policies that have cost them their erstwhile privileges – and now, as a final insult, he has come down here to rob them of the sanctuary my sister has granted them."

Treville swallowed as he thought of the hostility the man called Marais regarded him with. The mere idea of Richelieu being at the mercy of a man like that made his stomach turn.

"Where is the Cardinal now? Where did they take him?"

Ligny flinched. "You know I can't just tell you that."

" _Why_ did you take him?"

Ligny's chest rose as he took a long breath. "Again, Captain, let me apologise for your treatment, but you arrived at a very difficult time. When my sister sent word that the Cardinal and you were accompanying her back to Troyes, I was concerned that you already knew about the Spanish arms. I was considering whether I should flee before you arrived. But then I realised that the Cardinal's arrival meant an opportunity as well."

"You mean an opportunity to abduct the Cardinal?" Treville felt sick. He should have trusted his gut and insisted that Richelieu stay in Paris.

"No, not quite." Ligny took a moment to study the polished barrel of his gun. "I had something different in mind. You see, my sister didn't see fit to inform me of the audience with the Cardinal she had planned for the Huguenots. It was Marais who told me – the man you just met." Ligny's frown deepened. "He isn't very fond of the Cardinal – or you."

"Is he one of the Huguenots the Duchesse invited?"

"Yes. As it happens, Marais has been helping me for some time to move the arms you have been looking for. He was uncertain whether or not to accept Geneviève's invitation as he didn't think that petitioning His Eminence would do any good. And so he asked for my advice. Marais is a very single-minded man, and easily upset, particularly where the Cardinal is concerned. I _thought_ I had been presented with a way to salvage this operation." An odd look crossed Ligny's face, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared. "I told Marais I agreed with his misgivings about the audience, but I encouraged him to go anyway – and I suggested he should arm himself."

For the first time since Treville had run into him outside the cabin, the lines of tension on Ligny's face lightened, as though his cleverness amused him, and Treville felt a chill run down his spine. The sieur had created a situation that had been guaranteed to escalate. He had confronted a very angry Huguenot, who had many good reasons to hate the Cardinal, with the object of his ire. Conversely, Richelieu would not have reacted well to being accosted unannounced – and by Huguenots, no less. Not only did he hate being unprepared, he had already been fearing an attack. 

Had he not begged Treville _twice_ to take his suspicions about the Duchesse's family more seriously? 

But like a fool Treville had chosen to believe that the Huguenots' intention for seeking out the Cardinal had been to avoid further conflict with the crown.

He had also believed he'd be there to protect the Cardinal when they met.

_There had been blood on the floor of the Cardinal's chamber._

There had not been much, not enough to suggest someone had been seriously injured, but Treville was not naïve enough to let that thought comfort him. There was no limit to what a man with a grudge as deep as Marais' could do.

"How is the Cardinal?"

The question took Ligny aback. He blinked at Treville. "I have not seen the Cardinal in person since his abduction – but from what the Huguenots told me he must be in good health."

Treville closed his eyes again. He hated having to take a traitor's word, but he had to believe the Sieur and assume that Richelieu was safe – as safe as he could be under the circumstances.

"Did you tell Marais to abduct the Cardinal?"

That odd look appeared on Ligny's face again. 

"I honestly did not believe they would attempt something so brazen," he said. "They are _commoners_ – merchants and tradesmen. To be honest, I had expected something much simpler."

"You'd prefer if Richelieu was dead." Treville couldn't banish the disgust entirely from his voice. The Sieur de Ligny wasn't the first man to voice that sentiment, but Treville would never grow used to the thought. He never _wanted_ to grow used to it.

Richelieu deserved better than to have his life's work – and his life – threatened by small-minded, selfish men like Ligny. 

If they had any sense, if they had any care for anything beyond their own estates, they would be crawling in the dirt for the privilege of kissing the Cardinal's feet instead of plotting to have him assassinated.

"It would have made things far less complicated." Ligny's expression darkened. "Unfortunately, the Huguenots had different plans."

"If you disapprove of their actions, why do you continue to support them? What do you gain from keeping the Cardinal and my musketeer prisoner?"

Ligny paused. "I was hoping to find other uses for His Eminence." 

"Other uses?" Just saying the words made Treville nauseous. His lover was not an object to be pawned or traded like a dusty heirloom.

Ligny had the gall to smile. "You must have realised by now that I am not doing any of this merely for my own benefit – or the Huguenots'. His Eminence has made many powerful enemies since first taking office, and it so happens that one of them also has a vested interest in the Spanish arms you were looking for."

Treville sat very still. He could feel his shoulders tense. "Who is it? Is this another of Monsieur's plots against the Cardinal?"

Ligny regarded Treville silently for a long moment before he said, "this is why I wanted to talk to you. You have been a part of His Majesty's court for a long time, Captain and you are no stranger to intrigue. You know how these things go."

Treville's heart sank. "So this _is_ Monsieur's doing?"

"Yes, and no. His Eminence was not originally intended to become a part of this affair, but I believe once you understand what is going to happen, you will see why I couldn't let this opportunity pass. Monsieur's goals extend far beyond petty revenge."

Treville hardly dared to ask. "How far?"

"Monsieur intends to take the throne – if not as a King by his own right, then as Regent."

Treville released a sharp breath. Of course, the possibility of Gaston being involved had crossed his mind already during his council of war with Richelieu back in the King's study, but to have it confirmed like this was staggering. 

Gaston was no stranger to conspiracy. Over the years, the Prince had been involved in many plots – against Richelieu in particular. His grudge for the Cardinal had developed at least partly because Richelieu kept foiling his attempts to become more independent from his royal brother by endearing himself to the Grandes of France as well as foreign rulers, and partly out of resentment for the First Minister's repeated attempts to use him in the way royal offspring had been used since the dawn of time. So far, the young man had fled from every prospective marriage the Cardinal had tried to arrange for him. In turn, every one of Gaston's own attempts to marry had been foiled by Richelieu for fear of the political consequences, as Monsieur's desired brides had all been deemed unsuitable for the King's younger brother for one reason or another. 

There'd be peace at court if only the young Prince showed more respect for his brother's birth right and agreed to bend to the First Minister's will, but instead his dispute with Richelieu had devolved into an outright feud that had led Gaston to support the Cardinal's enemies in secret on many occasions. Richelieu had thwarted every last one of their plots, sometimes with Treville's help, but in all the years he had never quite managed to bring Gaston to heel. 

While Monsieur's co-conspirators had suffered every punishment imaginable from exile to execution for their attempts on the Cardinal's life, the Prince had escaped unscathed every time. Not only was he protected by the grace of being the King's brother and – up until now – only heir, he had been cautious enough to keep to the background of these affairs.

That he should now have grown confident enough to follow in his mother's footsteps by attempting to usurp his brother's throne was unsettling. Someone as cowardly and cautious as Gaston would never take that step unless success was practically guaranteed. 

But even more disconcerting than Gaston's uncharacteristic bravery was that he should finally have dealt a blow against Richelieu – even if only by accident. It took no great feat of imagination to guess that the Prince would not treat the man he considered his greatest enemy kindly once the Cardinal was in his hands.

Ligny's original plan to have Richelieu murdered by Marais would have been a kindness compared to what Gaston might do to the Cardinal.

Even if Gaston did not kill Richelieu outright, it would be the end of him. 

The Prince would incarcerate him, perhaps even torture him, and he would certainly try to use him against the King. He would set a price for Richelieu's release so high that King Louis could never afford to pay it – and Treville would never see him again. 

Richelieu would never know how much Treville regretted pushing him away. 

He would die in humiliation, alone and afraid.

Treville cleared his throat. He dared not to show any emotion as he looked up at Ligny. 

"Do you intend to take the Cardinal to him?" He could not allow that to happen – whatever the cost.

Ligny gaze briefly flickered towards the door. "I— the thought crossed my mind."

"But you haven't taken him to Monsieur yet?"

"No."

Treville lowered his eyes, praying his relief didn't show on his face. Even if he himself never made it out of this cabin, there was still hope that the musketeers could save Richelieu before he was taken away – and Aramis. 

He looked back up at Ligny and felt revived. "You will not make it past my musketeers. You must realise that they will not stop searching for the Cardinal – or me." 

"That is what I meant to talk to you about, Captain." Ligny walked over to the table and Treville sat up straight. He tried not to look at the hand holding the pistol too obviously. Taking on three armed men at once when he was unarmed was foolish, but his chances looked much brighter against just one.

"Again, I want to apologise for the way you have been treated." Ligny had started to pace, but whether unconsciously or not, he always kept the table between him and Treville. "But I am sure we can come to an arrangement "

Treville's eyebrows shot up. "An agreement?"

"Yes. What I am doing here can be very beneficial for you, too." 

"You are supporting Monsieur! He holds no love for me. I have opposed his plots too many times."

Ligny stopped pacing. He was standing in front of Treville on the opposite side of the table, the pistol was still in his hands.

"He _will_ love you if you help me."

"Help you with what?"

"I cannot deny that the presence of your musketeers in Troyes makes the execution of my part of the plan much harder. If you were to tell them to stop their search of the village and the woods at least for a day, I will see to it that Monsieur will reward you."

"And you would be free to move the Spanish arms?"

"Yes."

"And the Cardinal?"

"Ideally, yes. I'd prefer to take him to Monsieur as soon as possible."

Treville was silent for a moment, weighing his words carefully. The idea of pretending to take Ligny's offer in order to escape and disrupt his plans was tempting, but he could not risk Richelieu falling into the Prince's hands even for a moment. Once the Cardinal was at Gaston's mercy, it would be impossible to get him back.

"Why should I trust that Monsieur would honour any agreement I make with you?"

Ligny's eyes lit up with something akin to hope. "Monsieur is not blind to your value, Captain. You are close to the King. You know him well, you know his generals and advisors, and you are experienced in leading men into battle. He could use a man like you on his side."

Treville froze. "What _is_ he planning?" He looked back at the door that led to the adjoining chamber. "Does he intend to march on his brother with a roomful of Spanish arms? It is an impressive collection, but it won't be enough to lead a war against the King's armies."

"Oh, no, no! These are not intended for the Prince. Not directly. It is not by accident that I enlisted the help of the local Huguenots. I believe Geneviève told you how the Huguenots here feel about His Majesty. They are frightened of what will happen once they have been stripped of their last defences by royal decree, and with men like Marais that fright is easily turned into anger – and there are _many_ like him, even outside of Troyes."

"You are going to lead a Huguenot uprising?" Back in Paris, Treville had dismissed the possibility of a Huguenot uprising as absurd when Richelieu had brought it up. It was even more absurd to think that such an uprising should be led not by an influential Protestant nobleman and his peers, but someone like the Sieur de Ligny.

But Ligny shook his head. "No, of course I am not leading a Huguenot uprising, I am merely helping to start a minor revolt, just enough to give Monsieur what he needs. What better excuse is there to call on Spain for aid than good Catholics suffering at the hands of the Protestants that King Louis failed to subdue yet again?"

Treville's heart skipped a beat. "Gaston is going to invite Spanish troops to fight on French soil?"

"Yes," Ligny said calmly, as though he failed to see the enormity of what his words implied. "Not only will King Philip aid Monsieur in crushing this rebellion, he will see to it that the French throne is claimed by the brother who has proven himself willing to defend Catholic interests."

Treville was struck speechless for a moment. Ligny seemed unable to see the enormity of what his words implied. Gaston was actively inviting the invasion of his home country.

"And what is Spain going to ask in exchange for their aid?"

Treville could not believe his eyes as Ligny shrugged, but the Sieur appeared oblivious to his outrage.

"That will be Monsieur's concern when the time comes," Ligny said. 

"You would sell your fellow Frenchmen to Spain so easily?"

Ligny grimaced. "If you would take care to look, Captain, you would find that an alliance with Spain along with some concessions of land to King Philip isn't as intolerable a thought to as many people as you think. The supporters of the Holy League did not cease to exist with King Henri's conversion, and while His Majesty may have curtailed the Huguenots' power after their last rebellion, he made many enemies by leaving them as many freedoms as he did. Why shouldn't _any_ good Catholic rise in support of a new King who is finally taking action against the Protestant heresy that has plagued their home for so long?" 

"As long as their own estates remain intact and they stand to win a part of their neighbours' lands?"

Treville's heart was racing as he thought about his own family in Troisvilles – so close to the Spanish border.

The consequences of Gaston's plan would be monstrous.

"You are asking me to betray my own country for Monsieur."

Ligny leaned closer. He was almost within reach. "You would not be betraying your country. You would be helping it." 

"I don't see how I would be helping France by helping a man claim the throne who will be beholden to Spain."

"Then allow me to convince you." Ligny looked at him with the patience of a father. "I do not pretend that Gaston's ascension to the throne won't require a price in blood, but the price for continuing King Louis' current policies and seeking open conflict with our neighbours would be much, much higher. How many years has the threat of armed conflict with Spain and Austria been hanging over us? And yet our King would rather have us support _Sweden_ than improve our relations with our Catholic neighbours. Monsieur's alliance with King Philip would finally end that threat." 

Treville could not help the look of disgust on his face. If Gaston's plans came to fruition, they would also spell the end for France as a unified nation and a predominant power within Europe. France would become an extension of the Habsburg Empire, destroying everything King Louis and Richelieu had worked for over the last decade. 

But Treville guessed that Ligny already knew very well what Monsieur's coup entailed and simply didn't care. 

Treville licked his lips that had become dry. "You are still asking me to betray my King." He looked Ligny in the eyes. "What are Monsieur's plans for King Louis? How can you support a man who intends to stain his hands with his own brother's blood?"

Ligny straightened and took a step back as though offended. 

"His Majesty would lose his crown, yes, but there is no need for him to actually come to harm. Monsieur does not want his brother dead. If His Majesty were to consent to the Prince acting as his regent, he would be allowed a chance to retire and live the rest of his days comfortably and in peace."

Treville grimaced. "As his brother's prisoner?"

Even if Gaston refused to harm his brother initially, it would not be out of love Louis, rather than to avoid the reputation of a fratricide – until Gaston felt comfortable enough on the throne to get rid of Louis quietly. All it took would be a convenient accident while his Majesty was out riding, or an inconspicuously administered draught that turned something as common and simple as an upset stomach into something lethal.

"You cannot avoid the truth of what you are partaking in: Usurpation."

"Usurpation, treason – it all lies in the eyes of the beholder. Even late King Henri was considered a usurper by some. Right to rule is decide by whoever wears the crown at the end of the day."

"And what of the Cardinal? What does Monsieur intend with him?"

Ligny winced. "You told me you and the Cardinal disagree on many things. Why does it matter to you what becomes of him? Richelieu keeps urging the King not to make concessions to Spain and to curtail the power of his nobles. How many times has this country – _our_ country – been torn up by rebellion born against his policies? This is your chance to rid yourself, and France, of his poisonous influence."

Treville shook his head. He could not even pretend to accept Ligny's offer, not if it meant delivering Richelieu into Gaston's hands. Not even to save himself.

"Do your Huguenot allies know that this is how you intend to use them?" he asked. "As a scapegoat to justify a Spanish invasion of their homes?"

Ligny frowned. "Why concern yourself with their fate? Are you not tired of having to fight them again and again? Are you not tired of seeing your men, your brothers-in-arms, maimed and killed because of their pride?"

"There wouldn't be another conflict if not for Monsieur!"

"Please, Captain, you've met Marais." Ligny cast a dismissive look at the cabin's entrance. "Can you still not believe that he and his like _want_ this fight? They _want_ this uprising. We may be hurrying along their doom, but, ultimately, they will bring it on themselves. What difference does it make whether they take up arms now or in a few years?"

"Another uprising is _not_ inevitable. There are other ways to address their fears, but you would rather exploit them."

"Try to tell that to Marais."

"This is your home!" Treville almost jumped off his seat. "You are starting a revolt in your own Duché! Even if you do not care about your subjects, have you truly no concern for your family?"

Had Treville been wrong to assume that Ligny cared about his nephew and sister? 

"What do you gain from bringing war to your own estates?"

Ligny paused and squared his shoulders. "A duché," he said and Treville felt his breath catch in his throat. 

"Troyes?"

"Yes."

"I take it the Duchesse is not privy to Monsieur's plan?"

"No. Despite her petitions and her distaste for the Cardinal's policy, she would never support a coup."

Treville licked his lips. It took him a moment to regain his words. 

"You would betray your own sister?"

Perhaps he hadn't been entirely wrong to trust the Duchesse's intentions, but _she_ had certainly been wrong to trust the Huguenots – and her brother.

A remorseful look crossed Ligny's face but it vanished quickly. "Yes, my saintly _sister_. I've heard what they say about Geneviève at court; how she sacrifices herself for our family. They really believe she never remarried so her poor dead brother's son can inherit the Duché." Ligny's eyes narrowed. "Did you know that my sister had a lover for years even before she was widowed? She had intended to ask the King for permission to marry him, but then the man's brother got himself executed for having supported the Queen Mother in her little war against His Majesty, taking all hopes for that liaison ever meeting His Majesty's approval to the grave with him. She does not stay childless and unwed for Hugo's sake." 

He snorted derisively, but Treville could see that his hands had started to tremble ever so slightly.

"She also supported André's marriage to _my_ fiancée as soon as his own marriage prospects dissolved, since he was the oldest child and it was only proper that he should marry first. And once he was dead, instead of rectifying our brother's mistakes and teaching our nephew how to run a Duché, my dear sister was content to let Hugo follow his heart's desire to go to university because it is what André would have wanted. As she apparently still was not satisfied with the damage she had done to our family, she also decided to openly oppose the First Minister of France – risking to draw his ire on all of us – all because of an old keep, all because her Huguenots subjects begged her too." Ligny scoffed. " _That_ is what my sister's loyalty and care for her family looks like."

"Will any of that change if you aid Gaston?" Was this what Richelieu and Aramis and so many others were going to die for? Petty jealousy? 

"Your brother and his wife are dead," Treville said. "Do you think your nephew will be grateful to you for destroying his home and sacrificing his aunt to your cause?"

Ligny's eyes flashed. "Would you be content to spend the rest of your days in the shadow of someone like my sister, Captain? Do you know what it is like having to watch your siblings take and ruin everything you ever hoped for – including the woman you love and her child – for no virtue other than that they had the luck to be born first?"

Ligny shook his head and his hands and voice steadied. 

"I will no longer watch her run this family into the ground."

"If you wanted more, you could have offered your services to your King." Treville leaned forward, looking imploringly at Ligny. "You still can." 

Ligny was embittered, but it was obvious that he was supporting Gaston only because he hoped to improve his rank, not out of any great love for the Prince or Spain or out of outright opposition to King Louis. 

Treville indicated the chamber holding the majority of the Spanish arms. "Give up Gaston's plot, release the Cardinal and His Majesty will welcome you at his court."

"And then what? Do I become a lawmaker in his Majesty's parliament like you suggested for Hugo? Or am I to be just another peacock at his court?" Ligny pressed his lips together in a thin-lipped mockery of a smile. "I am neither a scholar nor soldier, Captain, and I already offered my services to a different King who will grant me what should have been mine already."

"You mean Troyes? Or what will be left of it after Monsieur's war?"

Ligny snorted dismissively again. "There are other lands and titles I will be able to ask for."

He regarded Treville with a dark look and leaned over the table, close. "I take it then that you are unwilling to accept my offer? Even to save yourself?"

Treville sprang to his feet. He grabbed Ligny by the collar with one hand as he rose and pulled just as the bench he had been sitting on fell over and crashed to the floor behind him. 

The Sieur gave a startled yelp as he lost his balance and smashed into the table with his legs.

Bringing up his other fist, Treville punched him in the face as hard as he could. 

Treville let go of Ligny's collar as the Sieur reeled. He grabbed the hand holding the gun, digging his fingers into the soft flesh between fingers and thumb and pushed it up and away. 

Ligny cried out. His grip on the gun loosened, but not before he had wasted his – and Treville's – only shot. 

The pistol fired at the wall, the ball harmlessly burying itself inside the wood near the ceiling and Treville cursed. He tore the spent pistol out of Ligny's hand and pushed him away. 

Ligny stumbled and fell. As he went down, he was nearly hit by the heavy, wooden table as Treville pushed it over. 

Treville took cover behind the upended table just as the door to the cabin burst open. Another pistol shot sounded and Treville saw splinters fly off the top corner of the table closest to him.

"Don't shoot!" Ligny shouted. "Don't shoot! He is unarmed, the pistol is spent. Just seize him!"

Treville heard the sound of a pistol being angrily hurled across the room and Ligny cursed again. Was it one of the Spanish arms he had taken such lengths to gather? 

A moment later Treville found himself face to face with Marais.

The Huguenot grabbed him by the collar in an attempt to pull him to his feet, but Treville slapped his hand away, choosing to get up on his own. Once he was standing, Marais grabbed him by the arm instead and for a moment Treville considered pushing him into the wall for his audacity and fighting his way out, using the spent pistol in his hand as a club. But one look confirmed that one of Marais' companions was watching them from the door with his own pistol raised. 

Seeing no more sense in fighting, Treville allowed Marais to take his empty gun and lead him away from the table. 

"That'll do, Marais," he heard Ligny say, followed by the sound of the Sieur spitting out a mouthful of blood. "Damn!"

"I warned you," the Huguenot hissed, but Ligny ignored him and turned his gaze on Treville. 

"I gave you a chance to save yourself. I gave you a chance to help us both" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His lip was split and bleeding. "But I take that as a 'no'."

Ligny walked over to the armed Huguenot by the door and held out his hand for the man's gun.

Treville grew rigid. 

"So what are you going to do to me? Are you going to murder me?" He swallowed. "Like you murdered Monsieur Bonheur?"

Ligny froze.

It had been a guess, a last appeal to any sense of shame or remorse that might still reside within his captors. 

The eyes of the Huguenot by the door widened in confusion. 

"Monsieur?" The Huguenots looked from Ligny to Treville and back again. They evidently did not know that Bonheur was dead. 

Ligny's reaction was telling. He took a step back. There was no denial, only a wild look on his face, and Treville was reminded that Ligny was not a soldier. It was likely that he had never taken a life before killing Bonheur so violently – strangling him and stuffing his body into the closet. 

Treville thought back to their conversation in the Duchesse's gardens. Ligny had been very talkative on that morning, going on tangents about everything and nothing, his rambling likely fuelled by agitation – perhaps even horror – over what he had done. 

He had to have murdered Monsieur Bonheur right before coming outside.

"I didn't intend to murder anyone!" Ligny hissed. 

"But you did," Treville said.

The grip on his arm tightened. 

"What is he talking about?"

"Bonheur was a threat!" Ligny's gaze switched between his companions. "He could not be trusted. He knew you had entered the residence and he would have betrayed you to the musketeers."

Marais exchanged a look with a man by the door. "You didn't tell us."

Ligny's mouth dropped open. "When did you expect me to tell you? I was detained by the musketeers right after you abducted the Cardinal _without_ consulting me first!"

He gestured at the second chamber in the back of the cabin. "Need I again remind you of the danger you put us in by your actions here?"

The Huguenots fell silent.

"I was protecting you. I am still protecting you!" Ligny continued and Treville gritted his teeth. He had a thing or two to say about that claim after what the Sieur had told him about his plans, but he doubted the Huguenots would hear him out – particularly not with the Sieur de Ligny standing right there in front of them, ready to deny any accusations made against him.

"And as for the Captain –" Ligny glowered at Treville. "You _are_ going to help our cause, if not as an ally then as a hostage. I am certain my patron will be very grateful to receive the Captain of the King's Musketeers as his guest."

Treville returned his glower with a dark look of his own. "You will never get out of the Duché while my musketeers are watching the roads."

Ligny twisted his lips to a thin line. "We will see about that." 

He cast a brief look down at the pistol in his hands before he turned back to Marais. 

"Tie him up, we have a hunt of our own to attend to," he said.

"And, Marais: this time make _sure_ he can't get away."

  


* * *

  


"Your Eminence, you have to get on your feet."

Richelieu lay on the forest floor, his ankle throbbing, and he could not get up. He could not walk. And he could not believe his ears.

"I can't!" 

"Try it again." The musketeer's boots padded across the forest floor as Aramis approached. "You cannot stay here."

Richelieu gritted his teeth. _As if he didn't know._

"I can't walk."

"You have to try. The Huguenots will be looking for us by now," Aramis said. "If they are close, they will have heard you shout."

Richelieu swallowed a bitter laugh. "Is this not what you wanted? To see me returned to our captors?"

_This was all the musketeer's fault._

Whatever had driven them to stop and argue even for a moment?

"Try again." 

From where he lay, Richelieu could not see Aramis' face, but the tone of command in the musketeer's voice took him by surprise. 

"You have to try. If we stay here, we will die here."

Richelieu swallowed. 

Aramis was right.

Of course he was right.

It was light by now and neither the tall thin trees, nor the low undergrowth offered any cover for them to hide. Anyone close by might spot them – or hear them argue.

Richelieu dug his fingers into the dirt. Beneath his hands, the soil was as soft and moist as the earth piled on top of a fresh grave.

_Dear God, give me courage._

Firmly planting his hands on the ground, Richelieu raised himself onto his hands and knees with a grunt. He reached for a nearby tree for support and he could feel the forest floor under his toes through the thin soles of his shoes as he tried to gain purchase with his feet. His throbbing ankle allowed itself to be bent and used.

Perhaps Richelieu, in his panic, had overreacted. 

But when he pushed himself up his ankle would not support him. 

Richelieu fell back down with a gasp. Red-hot pain seared him like the tip of a branding iron.

"Eminence!"

Richelieu pressed his eyes shut again. His breath came in short bursts and he tasted bile in his mouth. 

Distantly, he heard Aramis walk towards him. 

"Do you believe me now?"

Aramis did not immediately reply, and Richelieu stayed where he was, lying in the soft dirt, blinking away fresh tears.

_Lord, I need your strength._

"Which foot is it?"

Richelieu blinked. Aramis had crouched down next to him.

Was the musketeer truly suggesting what Richelieu thought he did?

He swallowed as he looked into the musketeer's face, but Aramis appeared to be serious.

"Left."

"Let me have a look."

Richelieu blinked again when Aramis touched his shoulder.

"It'll be easier if you sit up." He spoke surprisingly gentle for a man who had threatened to turn Richelieu over to his enemies, mere moments ago.

Swallowing his pride, Richelieu rolled onto his side and allowed Aramis to help him sit up. As his confessor had told him multiple times, sometimes, accepting aid was a trial on its own.

He watched numbly as the musketeer crouched next to him and lifted his left foot. It didn't hurt, but his ankle continued to throb.

"Can you move the foot at all?"

Richelieu swallowed. There was only one way to find out. 

Under Aramis' watchful eye Richelieu slowly moved his foot up and down at the ankle – until he gasped and the world disappeared behind a curtain of tears.

"Ah!"

Aramis flinched at Richelieu's gasp, but he merely made a thoughtful noise.

"I don't think anything is broken," the musketeer said eventually. "I would recommend resting your ankle, but we need to leave."

Richelieu's mouth fell open.

"How?" he croaked.

"I am going to help you."

Aramis slung an arm around the Cardinal's shoulders and under his armpit, and slowly, carefully, helped Richelieu to raise himself onto his feet. 

To his surprise, Richelieu found that he was able to stand without experiencing any pain worse than a dull ache in his left foot. Walking was a different matter, but fortunately Aramis was there to carry the weight that Richelieu's injured ankle wouldn't bear. 

Supported by the musketeer, Richelieu began to take small, hobbling steps. It was uncomfortable to walk like this, with only an awkward rhythm between the two of them. The occasional obstacle thrown in their way by the undergrowth slowed them down even further, but at least they were moving again. 

For the first few hundred metres Aramis still encouraged the Cardinal to keep going from time to time, but eventually, he fell silent.

As they limped on and the silence grew longer and heavier, Richelieu couldn't keep himself from steeling a glance at the musketeer.

"Why?" he asked. 

" _Why_?"

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes at the echo, Richelieu added: "you are shockingly helpful, considering that you threatened to take me back to the Huguenots personally."

Aramis hesitated to answer, making them go even slower as the expression of puzzlement on his face turned into a frown. 

"I am a King's musketeer," he said eventually, giving the same reply he had given the Cardinal in the Huguenots' cabin. "I'm a guard."

Richelieu looked away to hide how he struggled not to turn up his nose at the musketeer. For whatever reason Aramis was helping him now, Richelieu needed him and he had already said everything he had to say on the topic of this King's guard betraying his King in the most shameful way possible, and so he decided not to press for a different answer. 

They walked on in silence and Richelieu kept his eyes fixed on the forest floor, concentrating on avoiding any tripping hazards in their path. Although he had Aramis to lean on, not being able to use his left foot as he was used to made him feel off-balance. 

After a while, Aramis cleared his throat. 

"I do not like you." 

The blunt opening caused Richelieu to wince and look up at the musketeer.

"I do not trust you," Aramis continued, "but it doesn't take a wise man to see that leaving you in the hands of Her Majesty's enemies would be a bad idea." 

He paused and Richelieu nodded to himself. Although this answer did not inspire great confidence in Aramis' personal commitment to protect Richelieu, it made more sense than anything else the musketeer had said all day, and it was more than Richelieu had expected after their altercation. 

"My Queen trusts that she has nothing to fear from you for the moment," Aramis said. There was a clear warning in the musketeer's dark eyes not to disappoint that trust as he continued to frown at the Cardinal. "And so does the Captain." 

"The Captain?"

Aramis looked away, fixing his eyes on the ground in front of them. "Treville is the one who asked her to spare you when we showed her the evidence against you. She agreed with his reasoning." 

"He did?" Richelieu's breath hitched. "What was his reasoning?"

"I don't know." 

Richelieu misstepped and only the musketeer's strong arm prevented him from doing further harm to his ankle, but not even the fresh stab of pain could distract him from the scene that unfolded in his mind.

He imagined the Queen receiving the musketeers and their Captain in her chambers anxious for answers, to know whether she was safe. The musketeers would have shown her the evidence they had found of Milady's involvement – and explained what they thought it meant.

Richelieu looked at the forest without seeing, gazing into the distance. 

Had the musketeers known their Captain would ask Her Majesty to pardon the man they wished to see condemned?

Had Treville asked her to explain his reasoning in private because his soldiers had protested? 

What had Treville told Her Majesty when he had explained to her why the Cardinal who had planned her assassination behind his back should be spared?

Had this been before or after Treville had decided to leave him?

"The Captain puts too much faith in you."

Aramis' words disrupted Richelieu's train of thought, returning him to the forest.

The musketeers likely considered _any_ faith put into the Cardinal _too much_ , but still Richelieu couldn't help the hopeful way his heart jumped at the thought. He wanted to hold onto that thought, but Aramis had was already moving on. 

"But he also trusted you to handle whatever we would find down here in Troyes and I saw the way you spoke to Courtis," he said. "Perhaps I am helping you because I hope that if we get caught again you can talk your way out of danger once more." 

They continued to walk in silence at an awkward, limping pace. Walking like this was exhausting, but at least now Richelieu could distract himself thinking about the fact that a musketeer thought that Treville had faith in him. But all too soon the dark nature of his restless mind betrayed him as it worried at the more disconcerting implications of Aramis' words.

 _'Too much faith'_.

Should this concern him? 

As elating as it was to believe that Treville had faith in him, Aramis clearly wasn't happy that Treville had argued in the Cardinal's favour before the Queen. Were the musketeers losing faith in their Captain because of the trust Treville placed in Richelieu?

But Aramis had also admitted that Richelieu had proven worthy of that trust when he had made Courtis doubt her brethren, leading her to set them free.

Perhaps one day, Aramis would be able to see reason on other matters as well. Richelieu could but hope – for the sake of the Queen's child, and the future of France with it.

Richelieu continued his ruminations, until Aramis stopped, forcing the Cardinal to arrest his steps in turn. 

Richelieu regarded the musketeer with a questioning look.

"Look ahead," Aramis hissed. His voice was low. "To the left. We are not alone."

Richelieu froze. 

Perhaps there was some justification for Aramis' professional pride as a guard soldier. Up ahead, a few hundred feet away, walked two men. Since all Richelieu could see were their hats and cloaked backs it was impossible to say whether they might be friendly or a threat, but his heart raced at the sight. 

All he could tell for sure was that they were neither wearing blue musketeer cloaks, nor the red-and-black uniforms of his personal guard. Their dusky attire seemed more in style for Huguenots than anybody else. He hardly dared to breathe as he watched them.

"I suggest we keep walking in a different direction, Cardinal."

Richelieu allowed Aramis to lead him away in silent agreement. They were taking small, unhurried steps, careful to make as little noise possible, but still Richelieu winced at every twig that snapped in their path and every leaf that crackled under their feet.

They didn't get far until Aramis made them stop again. 

There was another pair of men roaming the woods near them. They were talking to each other, but they were speaking too low for Richelieu to clearly make out their voices or to catch what they were saying. 

"Keep walking," Aramis muttered.

"What if they turn around and see us?"

"We don't know who they are. They might not be looking for us."

"Do you really believe that?"

Aramis frowned. "Under different circumstances I would offer to distract them while you run…"

He didn't need to say anything more.

Richelieu swallowed. His mouth was dry.

"Then perhaps, _you_ should run while I distract them. They want _me_. They might not care to chase you if they capture me." He took a breath. "At least that way you'd be able to tell Treville what happened."

An odd look appeared on Aramis' face. Richelieu dared not hope for respect from a musketeer, but Aramis regarded Richelieu thoughtfully for a long moment before looking away. 

"It might not have to come to that."

Aramis started directing Richelieu away from the strangers, but almost immediately stopped and cursed under his breath. 

Following his gaze, Richelieu spotted a man in a broad-brimmed hat riding a horse at a leisurely trot not too far away from the other two men. His dark riding cloak bulged over the outline of a sword and despite the chill morning air Richelieu could feel himself begin to sweat. 

He was convinced that the Huguenots hadn't had a horse at the cabin, and the rider was dressed much better than his kidnappers had been. But that didn't mean these men weren't associated with Marais or his patrons and Richelieu doubted it was a coincidence that they had started running into strangers seemingly any way they turned after not having encountered a single soul all morning.

Aramis started to back away just as the rider turned his head their way. 

The rider stopped his horse, looked again, and directed his mount towards them. 

"Your Eminence! And the brave musketeer!" 

"Monsieur."

It took Richelieu a moment to recognise the Sieur de Ligny and he kept his greeting brief. 

As the Sieur approached Richelieu could see his expression of relief turn into a look of wide-eyed excitement, but even seeing a familiar face did not calm Richelieu's heart beating in his chest or his urge to run. His eyes darted from the outline of the Sieur's sword to the set of pistols he wore on his belt and back to his face. There was dried blood on Ligny's lower lip that looked cut and swollen.

Would Treville – or Cahusac – have called on him to aid their search for the missing Cardinal?

If they had, should he not be accompanied by Red Guards or musketeers?

Ligny looked them up and down as he approached, but even upon taking in the way that Richelieu leaned on Aramis he didn't appear too concerned.

"Your Eminence, you have no idea how glad I am to have found you."

Ligny whistled sharply, loud enough to be heard by even the first pair of men they had walked away from. 

Richelieu turned around and saw the two men close-by walk towards them.

His heart stopped as he looked at Aramis to see whether he, too, had recognised their kidnappers. 

He considered telling the musketeer to leave him and run, but Ligny had stopped his horse – still well out of reach – and his hand was already on one of his pistols.

"We have been looking for you everywhere."


End file.
